The Best of Times (30 page)

“The driver could have gone to sleep.”

“He could. He could also have had to swerve. Anyway, we’ve got Gilliatt’s measure now. We can take other things he says with a pinch of salt. We’ll tuck this into our back teeth and keep it there. All right?”

“Yes, all right,” said Constable Rowe.

Freeman smiled for the first time that day. “That’s why this game is such fun, in its own peculiar way. I think we have to go back in, ask a few more questions. And we must take a very close look at the CCTV footage at the service station, see what we can pick up there … Also her firm—what’s it called? Oh, yes, Conferphoto—check whether they did actually cover this conference.”

“Should I check with her firm or the conference organisers?”

“The organisers. We don’t want her rattled, thinking we’re on to her. We don’t want to rattle either of them in any way. You know what they say, Rowe: give them enough rope and they’ll hang themselves.”

• • •

“Poor Mr. Connell.” Jo Wales walked into the nurses’ room on HDU. The police had become very pressing about questioning Patrick, and reluctantly his doctors had agreed. Jo had sat in on the interview, and her conviction that it was too soon had strengthened with every moment.

“Did they upset him?” Her colleague, Stephanie Hitchens, who had also nursed Patrick, had been equally against the interview.

“Yes, they did. I nearly stopped it twice—sorry, Maria,” she said to the Spanish cleaner whose path she was obstructing. “Anyway, he recovered himself each time. So I let them have their fifteen minutes.”

“Are we any the wiser?”

“Oh, not really. Still going on about going to sleep, remembering getting drowsy, eating his jelly babies—in tears once. That’s when I asked them to go, but he said he was all right, wanted to finish. And he said he thought there might have been someone in the cab with him.”

“Really? Seems very unlikely. I mean, where could such a person have gone?”

“Well, exactly. But of course the police got very interested in it, started questioning him more closely—he got very upset.”

“Poor Patrick. There he is, the sweetest man, having to cope with all this horror. I’ll pop along and chat with him for a bit.”

Maria, whose English was much better than most people in the hospital realised, finished her desultory floor wiping and set off for the lift. That would give her something to tell the journalist who had been pestering her for information for the past few days. And she should get that fifty pounds he had promised her …

• • •

Jack Bryant had had a good week. He’d bagged over a hundred brace of grouse, eaten some excellent meals, and furthered his acquaintance with Margo Farthringoe most satisfactorily. She was fifty-one, modestly good-looking, extremely sexy, and a very good shot. She was also newly separated from Gordon Farthringoe, who was disporting himself around town with a fine example of twenty-two-year-old arm candy. Margo and Jack had enjoyed a great deal together that week, and arranged to meet in London in the near future.

Jack was loading up the boot of the E-Type with as much grouse as he could decently take away with him when he thought he should give the car the once-over. She wasn’t as young as she had been, and she needed a lot of TLC. Everything seemed fine: except that she seemed to have lost a wheel nut. Bit of a bugger.

He had no idea where he might have lost it, decided it would be foolhardy to try to drive back down the M
i
without it, and embarked on a quest for a new one. It took most of the day; the border country was not rich in specialist garages. His irritation was considerably eased, however, by the offer of a further night at the Mackintoshes’, and a further foray into the arms of Mrs. Farthringoe.

• • •

Linda went over to her fridge and took out one of the minibottles of champagne she kept there for such moments. She poured herself a glass, savoured it for a moment, then lifted the phone, dialled Georgia’s mobile number.

“Darling, it’s good news. I mean
really
good news. They want you.”

“Oh … God. Oh, God, Linda, that is so … so cool!”

God
, thought Linda,
that word. That inadequate, all-purpose word
.

“I know. It’s lovely. Many, many congratulations. I’m totally thrilled. What are you doing now?”

“I’m in Topshop. Oxford Circus. With a friend. I’m staying with her.”

“Well, want to come over, have a glass of bubbly? You can bring the friend.”

“Can I? Linda, we’d really love that; thanks so much. Can we come over right now? We’ll be about thirty minutes.”

“Great. I’ll get the glasses out.”

“Cool!”

• • •

“So … how was it?” William said.

He had driven to Bristol to meet Abi in a state of considerable emotional turmoil; he felt anxious and excited in just about equal measure, alternately wishing he had obeyed his innate instinct that he shouldn’t see her again and wondering why on earth he hadn’t invited her out sooner. She was so bloody sexy, and seemed really nice too, much nicer than you’d have thought a girl like her would be, and seemed (only seemed, he was sure) to like him too.

Of course, a relationship between them was a pretty futile idea; she obviously lived life very much in the fast lane (an unfortunate choice of words, he thought, smiling to himself), and his was … well, from her point of view, anyway, pretty much in the very slow one.

And as for what his mother would have to say … the whole thing was pointless, and this must be a one-off evening, dedicated—as he
had said when he called her—to discussing their respective interviews with the police.

But then … he’d walked into the bar she’d suggested, and she had waved at him, walked over to meet him, kissed him hello—her perfume was incredibly powerful, musky and sweet—taken his hand, and led him back to her table. He had said he mustn’t drink, that he had to drive; three beers later, his head was swimming a bit and he was wondering rather anxiously how he was going to get home. Maybe if they had a meal—a large meal—and he drank only water he’d sober up sufficiently.

He would not have drunk so much had he not found himself so relaxed; he might have expected to find someone like her hard to talk to, but she was easily chatty and funny, and she had a talent for listening too, asking him endless questions about the farm, about his life, about his parents, even, and displaying what seemed a genuine interest in the answers.

And he had slowly become aware that one of her long legs was pressing against his, that she was leaning closer to him, that she was studying his mouth as he talked; the combination of all these things, together with the three beers and the heady cloud of her perfume, was making him feel physically dizzy … surely, surely she couldn’t fancy him …?

“Oh, it was OK. I think,” she said now. “I’m glad it’s over. But they were very nice. You?”

“Oh, I think it was OK. Wonder if we had the same ones? I had Sergeant Freeman and Constable Rowe, his sidekick.”

“Yes, the same.”

• • •

God, he was so … so gorgeous. She would never have believed she would find herself fancying someone like him: so public-school, so straight-down-the-line, so old-style polite. He actually came round to push in her chair, for God’s sake, stood up when she went to the toilet and again when she came back.

She felt like … well, she felt like someone completely different. The sort of person who’d grown up used to that sort of thing herself. It was like being stroked, or eating chocolates, or lying in the sun; it was soothing, warming, totally pleasing.

And he was so incredibly good-looking. He could have been a model, if he’d wanted. OK, his haircut was a bit dated, but it suited him. It was great hair. That wonderful rich, conker brown and then sort of blond streaks.

He had no idea how attractive he was. He was a bit like a child, completely unself-conscious; she looked at him now, sitting in the bar, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, showing his brown arms—so brown, they were, covered in thick blond hair—grinning at her, talking about the farm, about how much he loved it in spite of everything, loved being out-of-doors all the time, about the satisfaction of it, of harvesting the wheat, of rearing healthy animals.

“My brother’s an accountant, one of those city types. Now, that’s an awful existence, pushing money around, helping rich people stay as rich as they can. It’s a mean, selfish little life.”

She was surprised by how articulate he was; somehow she’d always imagined farmers would be the strong, silent type. When he moved on to the supermarkets and how they screwed the farmers into the ground, ruined the small ones, she began to care about them too, enjoying listening to his deep, rich voice—and yes, it was a bit posh, and she didn’t usually like posh, but it was his. So she liked it.

“Sorry, Abi; you mustn’t let me bore you. You probably want to talk about our respective interviews with the police.”

“You’re not boring me,” she said, “and I don’t want to. Plenty of time for that.”

“Fine. Look, I’ve had far too much to drink. Can we find somewhere to eat and let me buy you dinner? I need to consume about five thousand calories even to start to mop it all up. We could talk about the interviews then. Or … maybe you’ve got other plans?”

Abi said no—no, she hadn’t, and dinner would be great.

He suggested Browns; he would know Browns, she thought; it was made for people like him. She didn’t often go there; it was … well, full of people like him. Which tonight seemed pretty good.

“So, come on,” he said when they had ordered—a large steak for him, a crab salad for her. “What about you? Tell me about your job, tell me about your family, tell me what you like doing.”

She had an almost irresistible urge to tell him what she really liked doing and how much she’d like to do it with him, but suppressed it and gave him as sanitised a version as she could of her life, her friends, her job. She cut out the lingerie modelling, the drugs, and—obviously—most of her boyfriends. Especially the last one.

“So … no one serious at the moment?”

“No.”

“I can’t think why not.”

He looked so genuinely baffled she wanted to kiss him. She did kiss him. Only on the cheek, but …

“What was that for?” he said, grinning at her.

“For wondering why I hadn’t got a serious boyfriend. I wish …”

“But why not? I really can’t imagine.”

“Because they’re mostly rubbish, that’s why. The men I meet. Spoilt. Up on themselves. Waste of space.”

“Well, that’s pretty damning,” he said, laughing. “You must have met a particularly bad lot. I feel I should make an apology for my sex. No, seriously. You’ve obviously been very hurt by … by someone.”

“Yes, lots,” she said, and then the person who had hurt her the most and the most recently swam before her eyes, and the magic was gone, albeit briefly, and she felt suddenly and dreadfully sad.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. He was clearly much too much of a gentleman to ask her about it; and she could hardly tell him. So they sat in silence for a moment or two, and then he said, “Look, I should be getting back quite soon and we’ve still not talked about our interviews. So … how was yours? Really? Was it as awful as you expected?”

“No. No, it was fine. They were very nice. Much less scary than I expected. Yours?”

“Also very nice. Very thorough. They went into absolutely everything. Who I talked to, all that sort of thing. They even asked about you.”

“Me! What did they ask about me, for heaven’s sake?”

“Oh, well, I told them how great you were, helping the little boys. How you went to the hospital with one of them. And then they asked me if I knew anything about your relationship with the doctor bloke.”

“My relationship with … But I don’t … That is, why should they ask you that?”

“No idea. Well, first they asked what happened to your car, why it wasn’t still on the motorway, and I said you’d been with the doctor in his. And then they asked me if I knew anything about your relationship with him. I said absolutely nothing, except that it was a professional one, that you’d been at a conference together.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Oh, and I said he seemed pretty tense, was shouting at you at one point.”

“Well, he was. Quite true.”

Did it matter, their knowing that? Not really. And William had said all the right things: that her relationship with Jonathan was only professional. But … why were they interested? It was a bit worrying.

“Anyway, that was about it, really. Ah, here’s the bill. No, no, I insist”—as she fumbled for her cards—“don’t be silly. Look, can I drop you anywhere?”

God, he was such a fucking gentleman; most men, after buying you three cocktails and dinner, would expect to be well into your knickers.

“No, it’s OK; I’ll get a cab.”

“Oh, now, that’s ridiculous. I’ll just drive you home.”

Maybe he did want to. It seemed crazy not to find out.

They went out to the street, and as they walked to his car, she put
her arm through his, and he looked down at her and smiled in that … God, that sort of … sort of charming way, and then he said, “Come in, hop in.”

Abi hopped.

It was a ten-minute drive; as they parked outside the block on her bleak, narrow street, she said, hoping she sounded like the nice girl he seemed to imagine she was, “Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

“I’d love to, but I really mustn’t. My ghastly brother’s coming down tomorrow—”

“What, the accountant?”

“That’s the one. God, I must be boring. Banging on about my family.”

“William,” said Abi, reaching up to kiss his cheek, “you couldn’t ever be boring. I could listen to you all”—she had been going to say “all night” but amended it hastily to—“all day. Even talking about your cows. Your girls, as you call them.”

He did; she had found that unbelievably sweet.

“Really?” She was sure if it had been light, she would have seen him blushing. He did blush; became discomfited quite easily. He wasn’t exactly shy, but he was quite … bashful. The other thing he did was giggle. He had a wonderful laugh, a booming, roaring laugh, but he also, when suddenly amused, giggled uncontrollably and infectiously.