Murder... Now and Then (21 page)

‘There are
not
hundreds of babies,' he said. ‘ There are very few babies. These agencies try to make you adopt older children. Everyone wants babies.'

‘ ‘‘… that the election, when it came, would be, as ever, three horses in a race designed for two. First past the post was not,'' he went on, ‘‘a system which …'' '

‘At least let's see what they say,' she said.

‘Ssh – there's Mark,' he said.

She looked without interest at Mark Callender, the man who was standing in Stansfield for the Conservatives. He would lose, of course. But he was a friend of Charles's from medical school, and she was supposed to hang on his every word. He had as much chance as the Liberal who had just given them his views on proportional representation, and Mark's opposing views on the matter held little interest for Geraldine.

‘I think we should invite him to dinner,' said Charles. ‘ Maybe when Max and Val come. They'll be here at the end of the month.' He turned to look at her. ‘We haven't had a house-warming,' he said.

Last month they had moved into a detached ex-farmhouse that Charles had plans for. It was a lovely old house; she would like to have a dinner party. But he was changing the subject.

‘That would be nice,' she said.

‘Mark, and his wife. Max and Val. Zelda … Zelda's always a nuisance,' he said.

She couldn't help being a widow. Charles was really quite miffed about that because she made an odd number at dinner parties.

‘There's no law says that dinner parties have to consist entirely of couples,' she said. ‘ If we're having one, Zelda's coming.'

Geraldine liked Zelda; she always had. Eight years older, Zelda had been rather like a big sister as Geraldine had grown up, living next door, and always prepared to let Geraldine tag along with her. She had had to get married, of course, as anyone could have told you that she would have had to do from the time she hit puberty. And then she had surprised everyone by settling down to being a wife and mother and helping Jimmy run the business for the next sixteen years, until he died.

‘Good,' said Charles. He smiled, and picked up his diary. ‘I suppose we should let Max and Val settle in first. But March is no good – I've got a dozen things on. I think it'll have to be the first week in April – let's hope the election isn't called, or Mark won't have the time to spare. If we make it a weekend, Tim might be able to come home from school – he can partner Zelda.'

‘Good idea,' said Geraldine.

‘Right – should we send out invitations, do you think, or just ring and ask them?'

She wouldn't be sidetracked like this. The bloody thing wasn't for two months. ‘Can we get in touch with them, at least?' asked Geraldine, a hint of desperation in her voice as the subject was changed.

He frowned. ‘Who? Zelda and Tim?'

‘The adoption agency,' she said, stubbornly. He knew perfectly well who.

‘We will, if we really can't have one of our own,' he said. ‘But it's much too soon to do anything like that now.'

No adoption, then. Geraldine knew by now that Charles's ‘ but' meant ‘no'. And Charles was the boss.

But he couldn't give her a baby. She knew that. He knew that. A chance, a possibility. Winning the pools was a chance, a possibility. It didn't happen. A baby wouldn't happen. Oh, she would go on trying, like people went on filling in coupons. But they knew, and she knew, that it would never really happen.

She didn't think she could bear that.

Holland seemed the logical place. Victor knew the country well, and he had money and contacts there; it wouldn't be difficult to set up a legitimate business. He had never so much as parked on a double-yellow line in Amsterdam; now was the time to get out of the game for good and become the respectable businessman that he appeared to be in England. The Drugs Squad knew nothing about him, and they weren't going to, but he would be coming to the attention of the police one way or the other, so Holland seemed like a good idea.

Margaret had accepted that a move was necessary as she had accepted everything else; she had asked if there was any chance of Catherine's coming with them, and he had told her he would try his best to persuade her.

He had been able to let the private investigators go; they had been a drain on the resources that he now had to husband, if he was to get the sort of start he wanted in Holland. Anna was keeping a permanent eye on Catherine now, for a fraction of what he had paid the agency. He had been unlucky on his last few visits to the flats; Catherine had been out.

She was out again this time; her window was in darkness. It could almost be a deliberate avoidance of him, he thought, as he knocked on Anna's door, which was opened on the chain, then thrown open to welcome him in.

‘You didn't tell Catherine that I've been coming here, did you?' he asked Anna quietly, as she let him in. If she had, she'd be very sorry.

‘No, of course not. You asked me not to.'

‘I told you not to.'

She smiled a little. ‘I didn't' she said. ‘Honest.'

He accepted that; he pulled a package from his inside pocket, and handed it to Anna. ‘For our mutual friend,' he said. ‘He'll visit you tomorrow night.'

She took it, and went into the other room to put it in the drawer of her dressing table. He pulled notes from his wallet, and put them on the table to cover the lost revenue that Wilkes's visits caused.

They went into a tin which she kept in the cupboard. He watched as she carefully hid the tin, and wondered what to do with her when he went to Holland. She could, he supposed, be reasonably useful to him if he were to take her. She would have to lose the rough edges, but it might be an idea. She was still in her teens, good body, attractive face, clean. She kept herself healthy; no drugs. Anna intended doing this for just as long as it took tor her to have enough money to get out of it; she wasn't hustling for a shot in the arm. And she was determined enough to succeed. He'd have to curb the independent streak.

‘How well are you doing?' he asked.

She closed the cupboard door and locked it. ‘Not bad,' she said. ‘I've got a lot of regulars now.'

If her customers came back for more, there was potential there; he could take her in hand. She was bright; she would learn quickly how to satisfy more discerning customers. He could try her out. He took out his wallet again, and counted out notes, watching Anna's reaction as the amount grew to what she took in a week.

‘I owe a friend a favour,' he said. ‘ I want you to visit him in his hotel room.' He looked at what she was wearing, and sighed. ‘Do you own anything to wear that will get you past the doorman?'

She nodded, still looking at the money.

‘It's an expensive hotel,' he said. ‘He's got expensive tastes. You have to work for that sort of money.'

She gathered up the cash. ‘Where and when?' she asked, going to get her tin.

He wrote down the name of the hotel, the room number, a date and time, and a pseudonymous Christian name. ‘ Go straight up to the room,' he said. ‘And don't let me down, Anna.'

‘I won't.' She smiled. ‘Ray and I could make a good team for you,' she said.

He walked over to where she knelt by the cupboard, the tin half open as she counted the money, and stood over her. ‘What do you know about what Wilkes is doing for me?' he asked, and took a handful of her hair in his hand. ‘ Have you been asking questions?'

She looked up, her mouth open, the money falling from her hand. ‘I didn't ask him anything!' she cried. ‘I didn't ask him anything, I swear!'

‘I want to know every word that has passed between you and Wilkes.' He tightened his grip on her hair.

‘Don't hurt me! I never ask him anything! He just tells me – I swear to God, Victor!'

‘Every word,' he repeated. ‘You're not getting up from there until you've told me every word.' He looked down at her. ‘And then I'll decide what to do with you.'

She stared up at him, dumb with fear.

‘From the first visit,' he said. ‘ Now.'

It took a long, long time to get the details out of her. He had scared her too much; at first she lied, and when she finally tried to tell him the truth, she couldn't think straight for fear of what he might be going to do to her. He sighed, and took her through it all again, over and over again. He had to know what Wilkes had been saying.

Max looked across at Catherine's empty desk, then looked for the umpteenth time at the clock; it was five to twelve, and still she hadn't arrived. This was his last day; he started his new job on the fifth of February, and was giving himself a week to get settled in at the new house. He and Catherine had stayed on at the office until late into the evening the day before; it was the best he could do by way of farewells. He had thought she had understood, had seen the situation from his point of view, but she hadn't come in. He didn't want it to end like this.

She lived alone. She might be ill, unable to get help. He shook his head, trying to laugh at himself. She lived in a flat; there must be dozens of people around. But perhaps not, he thought again. Not in view of the calling of her fellow residents. Most of them shut up shop in the early morning and went off to where they actually lived. If they didn't, chances were they would be asleep at this time in the morning.

She could have had an accident. What sort of identification did she carry? Any? She might, now that her employment was on a regular footing, and her fear that someone might trace her was less marked. Perhaps she was in hospital somewhere, and there was no way of contacting him.

Or perhaps they wouldn't contact him. That thought, the realization that he wasn't the only person in her life, made him feel inexplicably lonely. That was ridiculous, he told himself. When he had picked her up on the road that night she had clothes, and money. She obviously had a family. Perhaps they had been contacted, this family that he assumed she must have, but about whom she never spoke, and from whom she had run away. Perhaps she needed him to rescue her again. But she would have rung, if that were the case, he told himself. Not if she was ill, he argued.

He should go and see if she was all right, he thought, as the door opened, and she was there.

Relief flooded through him; she hadn't run away again, she wasn't in hospital, she wasn't lying racked with pain, unable to contact help. But there were dark circles under her eyes, and her hand shook as she brought in the second post and handed it to him.

‘I'm sorry I'm so late,' she said, sitting down without removing her coat. ‘ I overslept.'

She looked as though she hadn't slept at all, and he felt terrible. ‘Are you all right?' he asked, hovering anxiously as she sat down. ‘Are you cold?'

‘I'm fine,' she said. ‘Maybe a touch of flu, or something.'

He felt her forehead, and turned up the electric fire, going along with the pretence that her condition had physical origins. ‘ Perhaps you shouldn't have come in,' he said.

She caught his hand in hers. ‘I've only got you for today,' she said.

Oh, hell. Max crouched down beside her. ‘ You'll get another job,' he said. ‘Meet someone nice.'

She was shaking her head. ‘ I don't want anyone but you,' she said. She flushed, and squeezed his hand with enough intensity to hurt. ‘Take me with you, Max,' she whispered.

‘I can't,' he said, standing up, removing his hand from hers. ‘It's impossible – I'm going to work for someone else. I've already got a secretary there.'

‘Leave Valerie and take me instead,' she said, the words coming out in a rush.

He closed his eyes. ‘Catherine – you know that's crazy,' he said.

‘Why? Why is it crazy? You love me, you told me you did last night.'

He sighed. Last night had been a mistake. ‘Do you really want it spelled out?' he asked. ‘All right. We're selling our house here – we're buying one in Stansfield. Half of it is hers. She's my
wife
, Catherine – you can't just cast your wife off when you feel like it!'

‘But you love me!'

He sat down on his desk, running his hands down his face as he looked at her. ‘Catherine, for God's sake,' he said. ‘Grow up. This is real life. I have a wife, and responsibilities. I provide for her. I provide a roof, and clothes and food. What's she supposed to do if I tell her I'm taking you with me instead?'

‘She could get a job!'

If he had needed proof that a relationship with a seventeen-year-old was not one to be encouraged, he had it now. He shook his head slowly. ‘ Catherine,' he said. ‘I am not leaving my wife. Not for you, or for anyone else. I'm a married man, and that's all there is to it. Valerie and I are going to Stansfield, and you will get on with your life. You'll meet someone – someone your own age. This … this was an interlude. You'll not be able to remember my name in a year.'

She sat staring down at the typewriter, as all sorts of dreadful possibilities went through his head. Suicide. Following him to Stansfield. But she wouldn't, he told himself. She was really a very sensible girl, normally. She had left the office last night and gone back to that cheap little bedsit, and had realized how alone she was. He thought about suggesting that she try patching up her differences with her family, but he decided against that; she had never shown the least inclination to go home.

She had seemed perfectly all right last night. A bit tearful, a bit sad, but not like this. He allowed the thought to flit across his mind that she was somehow staging the way she looked, to shake
him
up. But it barely touched his consciousness.

‘Come on,' he said. ‘I'll take you out somewhere nice for lunch.' He could risk that at least on his last day. A perfectly natural thing to do.