Mummy's Favourite (26 page)

They walked on past the wheel to where the street artists were beginning to pack up; life-size statues in gold and silver moving wearily from the positions they'd held for hours at a time, their limbs creaking as they stretched and bent their bodies back into action. They stopped to watch as one man removed his outer golden clothing to walk away in jeans and jacket, a hat pulled over his yellow hair, his face and hands still glistening gold.

They stayed still, watching silently for several minutes, Charlie running the last few days' developments through her head. Something was pricking her memory that she suddenly thought was important but she couldn't think what, and it was driving her mad.

‘Don't worry.' Ben squeezed her hand. ‘You'll crack both cases. Honestly, I think you will. Now shall we have a glass of wine, instead of a coffee?' He pointed towards a bar at the side of the walkway. It was busy but there were still a few empty tables dotted about. ‘You look as if you deserve it after the last few days.'

‘Why not!'

She couldn't argue with that. Besides, they were heading in the direction of the skateboard park where Ben had been robbed. It probably wasn't a good idea as yet.

Ben steered them to a table on the periphery of the bar and waited for the barman to come over.

‘You know wine will go straight to my head?' she felt suddenly nervous as Ben sent the waiter scurrying off to get a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

‘That's what I was hoping. But… don't worry, I'll order some food too. Wouldn't want to take advantage.'

He buried his head in the menu.

She watched as he concentrated, deep frown lines accentuating his conscientiousness in ensuring she was at ease. She liked him even more for it. He was already a good friend, but she wasn't sure whether she wanted any more.

‘Thanks Ben. I'm not sure I'm quite ready to be taken advantage of at the moment, but it's nice to have someone who's trying.'

She looked across to where some of London's iconic buildings stood, lit up against the night sky: the Gherkin, the Shard and Canary Wharf all spiralling upwards.

London was at its best at this time of day. People were relaxed and chilling after a day's work and the buzz in the bars and cafes along the riverside grew louder as the wine took effect. This part of the city changed on a Friday evening from the business heart of England to the cultural nucleus of the capital. It was a great place to live and work.

The waiter returned with their wine and poured a good-sized glass.

She took a long sip. It was cold and refreshing and went straight to the right spot. She speared an olive with a cocktail stick and popped it into her mouth. In spite of her fatigue, she suddenly felt alive.

They chatted for what seemed like hours over several courses, each taking it in turn to tell the other some of their life experiences, hopes and dreams. She was completely honest, speaking about her relationship with her mother and sisters, her work and her recent experience with Hubbard. When she struggled to find the right words, Ben waited, not making a fuss; instead allowing her emotions to ebb and flow unquestioned.

He in turn spoke about his time in the army and the subsequent decline of his relationship with his family as his drinking increasingly became his solace. She listened, at times stirred to tears by the way his voice faltered as he described some of the things he'd witnessed and shared the same emotions as she herself had felt.

She had no idea their lives had so many parallels. Ben spoke easily, seemingly not worried about laying himself bare to her and she appreciated his honesty. It was rare to find someone who could allow themselves to open up without fear of humiliation.

The city was completely bathed in illuminations when they eventually moved to leave. Ben wandered across the walkway to stare down at the Thames. The bridges appeared as glowing tracks across the dark footpath of the river. Cruisers left trails of fluorescent light along the water, like comets across space. Charlie joined him, shuddering visibly at the sight of the muddy, black water, lapping lustily at the bank. She turned away as a chill ran through her body.

‘What's the matter?' Ben shifted alongside her. ‘Don't you like the river?'

‘My little brother Jamie drowned.' She closed her eyes and was hurtling back in time like a roller coaster ride, out of control and unable to stop. ‘We were on holiday. We went to the same seaside town every year. Harry, my step-father, knew some of the locals at the harbour. He would go out drinking with them. One of them in particular was friendly. His name was Arthur. He had a little boat. I saw him bringing in some fish he'd caught one evening and I asked if Jamie and I could go out fishing with him. My mum didn't want us to go, but Harry said he'd go with us, if Arthur said we could.

‘Harry and Arthur were drinking beer and laughing together. We went out a long way and it was getting dark. It began to rain and the waves were getting bigger. We began heading back, but the boat started taking in water. Arthur went to put the bilge pump on but it wouldn't work. And there was more weight in the boat than normal. It was taking in more and more water. Me and Jamie were trying to scoop it out with buckets but it was coming in quicker than we could get rid of it. Jamie was so frightened. I'll never forget the look in his eyes. The boat was getting lower and lower. A large wave hit us and knocked us all to one side. The sea just flooded in.

‘The boat went down within seconds. I never saw where Jamie went. One second he was there beside me, clinging on to me, the next he was gone. The coast-guard found me and Harry. My mum called them when we didn't return. Jamie was missing for thirteen hours before they found his body. I will never, ever forget a minute of that time.'

She spoke in a staccato monologue, her voice faltering. She couldn't trust herself to speak at any greater length. She rarely, if ever, talked about this and didn't really quite know why she was telling Ben, a relative stranger but now, just days after the anniversary of her brother's death, somehow it just felt right.

‘I'm so sorry.' Ben took her hand. She was glad that he said nothing more.

‘My brother and Arthur died that Wednesday. There were so many things wrong that Harry and Arthur ignored. We should never have gone out to sea that evening. Maybe if they hadn't been drinking they would have seen the storm clouds coming and got us back quicker. The boat was unseaworthy. Arthur only had the one life jacket, which they gave to me because I was a girl. If there were flares they were out of reach. Even the radio didn't work properly.'

Charlie pulled her hand away from Ben's gently and put both arms up behind her head.

‘At the inquest the responsibility for Jamie's death was pinned firmly on Arthur and the faulty boat, but he was dead so no one was ever prosecuted. My mother blamed Harry too. They tried to make a go of it for a few years. They had my two sisters but after Jamie there was always a void that would never go away. In the end they split up. For years I hated Arthur. I hated Harry too. I went off the rails for a long time. In the end I knew I would have to do something to make up for letting my brother down. I joined the police because of Jamie, to fight for victims; so that no one would ever lose someone they loved and not get justice.

Her voice was dull with pain.

‘And do you know who I hate the most? And what the worst bit is?'

Ben was staring straight into her eyes, concentrating on every word she said. ‘Only if you want to tell me.'

She suddenly did. He looked so serious. She knew without doubt he would understand. It was the one recurring thought that came to her every time she saw water. It was what came to her every night, if she forgot to put the nightlight on or plug her headphones in take away the silent screams.

She turned towards the river and opened her eyes, shivering at the sight of the fast-flowing water, imagining in an instant Jamie's fear.

‘I hate myself the most. Jamie was my little brother. We did everything together. He was my best friend. He came with me just because I wanted to go out on the boat that evening. He would always come with me, everywhere. It was all my fault. I took him to his death.'

She paused letting the words rest back down on her shoulders.

‘And the worst bit was. I couldn't save him. I saw his little face, so frightened, clinging on to me and I let him down. I didn't even see him go. I never got the chance to say goodbye.'

She stopped talking then, keeping the rest of the pain inside. There were some things that she would never be able to verbalize. She would always, always, blame herself for his death. And, deep down, she knew her mother blamed her too; even though she would never say it; even though she had told her time and time again that it wasn't her fault, she was only eleven years old. How could she have known? It was why now they couldn't speak about Jamie. It was why they went to his graveside separately. She would never be free from her guilt.

‘I watched friends die, knowing I couldn't save them,' Ben said quietly, moving off from the riverside. ‘So I know what it's like. But it really wasn't your fault.'

Charlie watched Ben's eyes cloud over with his own memories. She appreciated his attempts to make her feel better but deep down, she knew that it was her fault Jamie had died. Nothing would ever convince her otherwise.

They meandered slowly back towards the Tube station, both lost in their own thoughts, comfortable in the silence between them. Maybe that was the reason she had been able to speak. Because she had known that Ben would understand.

They moved unhurriedly, neither wanting to leave. As they neared the station her focus was drawn to a tattily dressed woman sitting on the footpath nearest to the entrance. She had a scarf tied around her head and sat on a pile of newspapers, with a toddler wrapped in a grubby blanket held tightly in her arms. In front of her was a piece of brown cardboard on which a message was written imploring passers-by for money.

Charlie checked her watch. It was nearly eleven p.m. and the child was still being dragged around the streets. As if thinking the same, Ben stopped directly in front of the woman, who immediately raised her hand towards them, palms outwards begging for cash.

‘Do you have a home?' Ben asked gently.

The woman nodded.

‘Listen to me, then,' he continued, his voice becoming firmer. ‘You need to get yourself and your child home.'

Charlie pulled her warrant card out and held it towards the woman, as if to emphasize what Ben had said. ‘I agree. It's far too late for this little girl to be out on the streets.'

The woman looked panic-stricken. She struggled to her feet, gathering up her meagre belongings, nearly losing grip of the sleeping child, whose eyes blinked open in shock.

‘Will I get in trouble?' she asked in a clipped Romanian accent.

Charlie shook her head. ‘No, not this time, but you shouldn't involve your child. Take her home now and go down to your local council if you need further help in the morning.'

The woman nodded and pulled the little girl close. The child was whimpering quietly now, having been woken. She shuffled off quickly into the distance.

Ben accompanied Charlie to the platform and waited until her train was pulling in.

‘Thanks for a lovely evening. We'll have to do it again soon.'

‘Yes, we will. Thank you too.'

He stood on the platform as her train left, waving at her until she could see him no longer. She thought about the evening and how they had spoken about anything and everything with no fear or pressure. He was a lovely guy. She was impressed with how he had dealt with the Romanian beggar and her child with care and compassion, when many others would have berated her.

But most of all she remembered the words of the woman herself -‘Will I get in trouble?'

She'd heard the very same phrase recently. Now she needed to follow it up.

He was excited now.

Her house was quiet and still. He'd seen, smelt and heard her already that morning and now it was his turn to touch and taste.

Thank God the kids were at private school and weren't around on a Saturday. He'd never have been able to wait until next week. He needed her now.

He wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge, reaching in and taking out a can. Pulling the tag, he almost laughed as a fine spray of lager shot upwards. He lifted it to his mouth and drank down the whole of the contents, crushing the can in his hand when he finished and tossing it towards the bin. It missed and clattered across the floor, spilling the last few droplets as it skidded across the tiles. He stared at it hard, debating whether he needed to pick it up. Today was the day when she would become his, so surely she wouldn't care about such things, but then he remembered how house-proud she was. He bent down and scooped it up, placing it carefully into the top of the bin. He wanted things to be perfect for her.

He loved being in her house. It made him feel part of her life. He could move around from room to room, sit on the sofa, watch TV, even lie on her bed with her scent all around him without being out of place. He was at home here and he knew without doubt that she would feel the same. They were meant to be together.

He walked into the lounge. On the wall hung a large photo of Annabel on her wedding day; her dress exquisitely clinging to her body, her face beaming with joy, her husband Greg standing beside her. He was tall and toned with blonde hair, teased into spikes, clean-shaven and clean-looking. He hated the man. It should be him there next to her. Reaching up, he turned the frame round so that the photo faced the wall. He couldn't bear to see her with another man. It wasn't right. It should be him and only him. She was his one and only.

Pulling up his sleeve, he took hold of his small kitchen knife. The blade was like a razor; he'd sharpened it carefully. He took it out and made slashing movements through the air, pretending he was a martial arts expert about to defend himself against an unknown foe. He caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece and turned towards it aiming the knife at the reflection of his own face and body.