Original Sin (18 page)

She had left the fitted bookshelves at the old flat, but new ones built to her specification covered the whole of the wall facing the window and on these, kneeling beside a packing case, Alan Scully was arranging her books. She had been surprised how many she had acquired since knowing him. None of these writers had she ever encountered at school but she was grateful now for Ancroft Comprehensive. It had done its best for her. The teachers whom she had once in her arrogance despised she now knew had been dedicated, struggling to impose discipline, to cope with large classes and a dozen different languages, to meet competing needs, to tackle the appalling home problems of some of the children and to get them through the examinations which would at least open the door to something better. But most of her education had happened since school. Behind its bicycle sheds and in its asphalt playground she had learned all that was unimportant about sex and nothing that was important. It was Alan who had done that for her, that and so much else. He had taught her about books, not condescendingly, not seeing himself as some kind of Pygmalion, but wanting to share with someone he loved the things that he loved. And now the time had come for that, too, to end.

She heard his voice: “If we’re taking a break I’ll make a coffee. Or are you just admiring the view?”

“Admiring the view. Gloating. What do you think of it, Alan?”

It was the first time he had seen the flat and she had displayed it with something of the pride of a child with a new toy.

“I shall like it when you’re finally settled. That is, if I see it when you’re finally settled. What about these books? Do you want to separate poetry, fiction, non-fiction? At present we’ve got Dalgliesh next to Defoe.”

“Defoe? I didn’t know I had a Defoe. I don’t even like Defoe. Oh, separate I think. And then by author’s name.”

“The Dalgliesh is a first edition. Do you feel it necessary to buy him in hardback because he’s your boss and you work with him?”

“No. I read his poetry to see if I can understand him better.”

“And do you?”

“Not really. I can’t relate the poetry to the man. And when I do, it’s terrifying. He notices too much.”

“Not signed, I notice. So you didn’t ask.”

“It would embarrass both of us. Don’t fiddle with it, Alan. Just put it on the shelf.”

She went over and knelt beside him. He had made no mention of her professional books and she saw that they were neatly piled beside the packing case. One by one she began placing them on the lowest shelf: a copy of the latest Criminal Statistics, the
Police and Criminal Evidence Act
1984, Blackstone’s
Guide to the Criminal Justice Act
1991, Butterworth’s
Police Law
, Keane’s
The Modern Law of Evidence
, Clifford Hogan’s
Criminal Law
, the
Police Training Manual
and the Sheehy Report. She thought: the collection of a professional woman on the make, and wondered whether in placing them to one side and not mentioning them, Alan was making some kind of comment, perhaps even a subconscious judgement on more than her library. For the first time in years she saw that relationship through the eyes of a detached and critical observer. Here we have a professional woman, successful, ambitious, knowing where she wants to go. Coping every day with the messy detritus of undisciplined lives, she has carefully excluded messiness from her own. One necessary accoutrement of this well-organized self-sufficiency is a lover, intelligent, personable, available when needed, skilful in bed and undemanding out of it. For three years Alan Scully had admirably filled this need. She knew that, in return, she had given affection, loyalty, kindness,
understanding; none of these things had been difficult to provide. But was it surprising that, having made his own commitment, he wanted to be more to her than the equivalent of a fashion accessory?

She ground the beans, relishing the fresh coffee smell. No drink ever tasted quite as good as the beans smelled. They drank the coffee sitting on the floor, their backs against a packing case as yet unopened. She said: “What flight are you taking next Wednesday?”

“The eleven o’clock, BA175. You haven’t changed your mind?”

She almost said “No, I can’t, Alan, it’s impossible,” but stopped herself. It wasn’t impossible. She could perfectly well change her mind. The honest answer was that she didn’t want to. They had talked over their problem many times before and she knew now that there could be no compromise. She understood what he felt and what he wanted. He wasn’t trying to blackmail her. The chance had come for him to work for three years in Princeton and he was anxious to go. It was important to his career, to his future. But he would stay in London, would continue his present job at the library if she would make a commitment to him, would agree to marry him, or at least to live with him, and have his child. It wasn’t that he thought her career less important than his; if necessary he would temporarily give up his job and stay at home while she worked. He had always granted her that essential equality. But he was tired of being on the periphery of her life. She was the woman he loved and wanted to spend his life with. He would give up Princeton, but not if it meant continuing as they were, seeing her only when the job permitted, knowing that he was her lover but would never be more.

She said: “I’m not ready for marriage or for motherhood. Perhaps I never shall be, particularly not for motherhood. I wouldn’t be any good at it. I’ve never had any training, you see.”

“I don’t think it requires training.”

“It requires loving commitment. That’s one thing I can’t give. You can’t give what you haven’t had.”

He didn’t argue or attempt to persuade her. The time for talking was over.

He said: “At least we’ve got another five days and we’ll have today. Unpacking all this morning, lunch at a riverside pub, maybe the Prospect of Whitby. There ought to be time for that. You’ve got to eat. What time are you expected back at the Yard?”

She said: “Two o’clock. I’ve only got the half day. Daniel Aaron’s on leave today so it isn’t easy. I’ll get off as early as I can and we’ll have dinner here tonight. One meal out is enough. We can pick up a Chinese takeaway.”

Alan was carrying the coffee mugs into the kitchen when the telephone rang. He called out: “Your first call. That’s what comes of sending out change-of-address cards. You’ll be pestered by friends wishing you luck.”

But the call was short and Kate hardly spoke as she answered it. Putting down the receiver she turned to him.

“It’s the Squad. Suspicious death. They want me at once. It’s on the river so AD is picking me up here in a Thames Division launch. Sorry, Alan.” She seemed to have spent the last three years saying “Sorry, Alan.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then he said: “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. What do you want me to do, Kate, go on unpacking?”

Suddenly the thought of him here alone was intolerable. “No,” she said. “Leave it. I’ll do it later. It can wait.”

But he continued unpacking as she changed her clothes from the jeans and sweatshirt, which had been suitable for the dusty job of moving in and then cleaning the flat, to a pair of fawn corduroy trousers, a well-cut tweed jacket and a polo-necked
jumper in fine cream wool. She plaited her thick hair high at the back and secured the end of the plait with a slide.

On her return he gave her his usual quick appraising smile and said: “Your working clothes? I never know whether you dress for Adam Dalgliesh or for the suspects. Obviously it’s not for the corpse.”

She said: “This corpse isn’t exactly lying in a ditch.”

It was comparatively new, this jealousy of her boss, and was perhaps both a symptom and the cause of their changing relationship.

They left together in silence. It wasn’t until Kate was double-locking the front door after them that he spoke again. He said: “Shall I see you again before I leave next Wednesday?”

“I don’t know, Alan. I don’t know.”

But she did know. If this case was as important as it promised to be she would be working a sixteen-hour day, perhaps longer. She would look back on those few hours they had spent together in the flat with pleasure, even with sadness. But what she was feeling now was something more intoxicating, and she felt it whenever she was called to a new case. This was her job, one she had been trained for, one she did well, one she enjoyed. Already knowing that this might be the last time she saw him for years she was moving in thought away from him, mentally bracing herself for the task ahead.

He had parked his car in one of the marked spaces to the right of the forecourt but he didn’t get in. Instead he came and waited with her for the approach of the police launch. When its dark blue sleek lines came into view he turned from her without a word and went back to the car. But still he didn’t drive away. As the launch drew up Kate knew that he was still watching as the tall dark figure standing in the bow held out a hand to steady her on board.

The call came to Inspector Daniel Aaron just as he was approaching Eastern Avenue. He didn’t need to stop the car to take it; the message was short and clear. A suspicious death at Innocent House, Innocent Walk. He was to go there immediately. Robbins would be bringing his murder bag.

The message couldn’t have come at a better time. His first reaction was a surge of excitement that here at last was the major job he had been longing for. He had only replaced Massingham on the Special Squad three months ago and was anxious to prove himself. But there was another reason. He was on his way to his parents’ house, in The Drive, Ilford. It was their fortieth wedding anniversary and a luncheon party had been arranged with his mother’s sister and her husband. He had applied well in advance for a day’s leave knowing that this was one family occasion he couldn’t reasonably ignore, but he hadn’t been looking forward to it. The morning promised a pretentious but dull lunch at the popular store restaurant his mother had chosen, followed by an afternoon of boring family chat. He knew that his aunt regarded him as an
uncaring son, an unsatisfactory nephew, a bad Jew. On this occasion she might not openly voice her disapproval but this brittle forbearance would hardly lighten the atmosphere.

He turned into a side road and stopped the car to telephone. It was going to be a difficult call and he preferred not to be driving while he made it. As he stabbed out the number he was aware of a confusion of emotions: relief that he had a valid excuse to miss the luncheon party, a strong disinclination to break the news, excitement that he was on his way to a case which promised to be a big one, and the usual irrational and pleasure-destroying guilt. He had no intention of wasting time in argument or prolonged explanations. Kate Miskin might be already at the scene. His parents would have to accept that he had a job to do.

It was his father who answered the telephone. “Daniel, haven’t you started out yet? You said you’d come really early, have a quiet time with us before the others arrive. Where are you?”

“I’m on Eastern Avenue. I’m sorry, Father, but I can’t come. I’ve just had a call from the Squad. It’s an urgent case. Murder. I have to drive straight to the scene.”

And then his mother’s voice as she took over the telephone. “What is it you’re saying, Daniel? Did you say you’re not coming? But you must come. You promised. Your aunt and uncle will be here. It’s our fortieth wedding anniversary. What is a celebration if I can’t have both my sons with me? You promised.”

“I know that I promised. I wouldn’t be on Eastern Avenue now if I hadn’t intended to come. The call’s just come through.”

“But you’re on leave. What’s the point of having a rest day if they call you back like this? Can’t someone else cope? Why does it always have to be you?”

“It doesn’t always have to be me. It does today. It’s an urgent case. Murder.”

“Murder! And you’d rather be mixed up in murder than be with your parents. Murder. Death. Can’t you give a thought to the living?”

“I’m sorry, I have to go now.” He added grimly, “Have a good lunch,” and replaced the receiver.

It had been worse than he had expected. He sat for a few seconds willing himself into calm, fighting down an irritation which was rising to anger. Then he slipped in the clutch, found a convenient driveway to reverse and joined the stream of traffic. He was part now of the morning rush hour, although the words seemed inappropriate to describe this grinding erratic progress. And he was unlucky with the traffic lights. The journey was punctuated by light after light glowing into red with maddening perversity. The scene of violent death to which he was driving with such tedious slowness could not yet even be imagined but, once there, the tasks would take all his thoughts and energies. Physically he was moving away from that Ilford house mile by painful mile, but now he could not banish it or its life from his thoughts.

The family had moved from the Whitechapel terraced house where he was born, when he was ten and David thirteen. He still thought of 27 Balaclava Terrace as home. It was one of the few streets not destroyed by enemy bombing, stubbornly surviving while the surrounding flats and houses were demolished in clouds of acrid dust and the great high towers rose up like an alien city. It, too, would have gone but for the eccentricity and determination of an old woman in a neighbouring square whose efforts at preserving something of the old East End had coincided with a shortage of local authority money for their more adventurous plans. So Balaclava Terrace
still stood, now no doubt gentrified, a refuge from strident modernity for young executives, housemen from the London Hospital and sharing medical students. None of the family had ever returned. For his parents the move had been the realization of a dream, a dream which was almost terrifying when it promised to become reality, a matter for constant half-understood conversations late into the night. His father, his accountancy examinations completed, had gained a promotion. It was to be a sloughing-off of the past, a move north-east which was also a move upwards, a few more miles from that distant Polish village with its unpronounceable name from which his great-grandfather had originally come. It would mean a mortgage, a matter for anxious arithmetic, the weighing of alternatives.