The Quiet Woman, page 12
I could have thrown back at her all the stones in my armoury. Like if you were so close how come you hadn’t picked up on her vulnerable mental or physical state? Her weight loss? How often did you visit? You never accompanied your mother to the surgery, did you? When did you last see her – alive? Or were you too busy chasing up your stories? Cruel, I know, but true. However, judging by the firm set around her mouth, Harriet Clay was quite capable of returning the favour and accusing me of missing something important. She got to her feet, smart and quick as a soldier, and was almost out of the door before she added a phrase that at the time I took as a threat. ‘I’m very like my mother,’ she said, with dignity, ‘in that I can harbour a grudge for an inordinately long time.’
Well, that was unexpected.
But I read the threat only too clearly, even though it didn’t quite match my opinion of Christine. I didn’t respond but stood up and held the door open so she had no option but to thread past me and leave, almost managing a smile with her Parthian shot. ‘So because I’m a journalist that cancels out the fact that I’m also a bereaved daughter?’
I wanted so hard to shrug and say, ‘Whatever’, that I had to force my shoulders downwards and press my lips together.
‘If you want to speak to one of the doctors,’ I said carefully, ‘I think you should give them fair warning.’ I meant of her profession. ‘Her registered GP is Dr Bannister.’
I could have added, ‘And good luck with that one.’ But of course I didn’t.
TWENTY-SEVEN
5 p.m.
As the weather had turned cool I had decided to cook a chicken katzu curry with Thai rice. It was one of my favourites, a nice warming dish, sweet and spicy. (Just like me, I thought, smiling as I cut the chicken breasts into smaller pieces.) There was the added bonus that I could put it in my slow cooker while I had a shower and tarted myself up. I’d shopped for the ingredients on the way home.
As I added the mango chutney I reflected how much I was looking forward to this evening. I felt warmth rather than apprehension. Will was such comfortable company and as well as my anticipated pleasure at his company was the added bonus that I might hear some added facts about Christine’s death, maybe a detail from Richard Clay’s statement which would confirm or refute my suspicions. I was curious to hear what limp explanation he’d come up with for his wife’s sorry death and his survival. He’d need a bloody good story to convince me he was a victim. Actually I felt I could have written his statement myself. In my version he’d claim he’d been coerced into swallowing a dose of whatever by his wife and had merely complied ‘distressed by her fragile mental state’. I only hoped he hadn’t added he ‘wanted to join her’. That would have been a step too far. Even the police might have been sceptical at that. But then I visualized him sitting in his chair when I’d visited, shrunken and crushed. And I wondered. Where was the truth?
I wondered if he had his fake facts lined up – like which of them had obtained the lethal drugs and how. I couldn’t exactly see Christine fishing around on the dark web for illicit substances, researching what would work best at which dose. And they certainly hadn’t obtained them legally from the surgery. I’d checked both Christine’s and Richard’s prescriptions and there was nothing there that could possibly have proved lethal. Which left street vendors. Which, in turn, brought me back to Ryan who, with his newfound friends, might be able to answer that one. Which one of them had approached the seedy bunch that hung around the High Street? Would they not have realized this would put them in a vulnerable position, open even to blackmail? In my mind here was possibly the threadbare area in Richard Clay’s narrative. If only I could subtly introduce that angle to Will the police might have a case they could prove in a court of law.
Intent. Procurement. Planning.
The questions stayed with me as I carried on cooking. If the police couldn’t produce a case – and I feared their resolve would be weak – they’d let it slide and Richard Clay would get away with murder, whatever angle his investigative journalist daughter might decide to take. We weren’t at fault. It was her father.
But introducing the subject to Will might jeopardize our relationship. He might jump to the conclusion that I’d invited him round just to squeeze information on the Clay case out of him. And it wasn’t that. I really liked him.
And so cooking done, chicken katzu in the slow cooker, bubbling away nicely, rice at the ready, it was time to get ready. In his honour I was wearing a dress. Nothing too formal, a short grey dress over which I’d put a bright red cardigan. I pushed my slippers under the bed and fished out a pair of black leather wedges. I straightened my fringe and put my make-up on, grinning to check I hadn’t smeared the lipstick over my teeth.
I was ready – ten minutes too early.
I poured myself a thimbleful of white wine. I wanted my wits about me and so I sat, in readiness, at the kitchen counter while idly scrolling through my phone. I’d heard nothing from Mark since the flowers which I had acknowledged by text. A quick: Thanks – all my favourites. I’d seen from the double ticks that the message had been picked up. If it was picked up by Vivien sneaking a look at his phone I really didn’t care. She, in the meantime, had gone ominously quiet on social media posts. I checked to see if PC Rowena Barrett had reposted anything. But there was nothing, which made me curious. Vivien should have been boasting about the impending birth by now, leaking little pink or blue hints, expectant father stuff – or else, if she’d already had the baby, pictures of two – yes, two – adoring parents peering into a tiny pink, wrinkled face. I was finding this silence a bit creepy.
And even though you might think my attitude strange, I actually hoped all was well, that some tragedy hadn’t befallen either mother or baby because, as a midwife myself – or at least with the SCM qualification tucked in my belt – I knew obstetrics could be a risky business for both mother and child. There is no entitlement or guarantee that there will be a healthy mum or healthy, perfect infant. For some what could have been the happiest of events can turn tragic. I stared across the kitchen and hoped sincerely that this was not the case. I actually felt worried for all three – mother, father, baby – and took a larger sip of wine, my mind spinning around with possibilities.
Why wasn’t goofy Vivien posting the happy news? Because it wasn’t happy? Because a tragedy had taken place? Something wrong with the baby? Had the baby died? Or was it something to do with Mark? For a moment I’d forgotten about the Clays; my mind was focussed on my ex and his family. I almost went so far as to text Rowena and check whether she knew anything.
And then the doorbell went.
And DC Will Summers was standing on my Welcome doormat. For once I hoped the neighbours were all looking because this was so obviously a date standing there. Wine in one hand, flowers in the other, big, big smile plastered across his face. In fact, as I looked past him, I did see a few faces peering through their windows – a couple of the Indian children and Robert Ford. Mr Ford even gave me a bit of a wave, a sly grin and a discreet thumbs up. He and I had become allies over a previous case.
And just for show before ushering him in I gave Will a peck on the cheek which widened his grin to XL.
I waited until we’d put the flowers in the sink and the bottle of wine, de-corked, was standing on the kitchen counter, before I gave him a really tight hug, which led to him regarding me with that warm grin on his face. ‘That’s nice,’ he said. I liked his response. It sounded sincere, genuine, nothing too over the top.
As I served the meal and poured us both a decent glass of wine I spent some moments reflecting, taking stock of where we were. DC Will Summers and I seemed to have settled into a comfortable relationship where we could share conversation or silences. I felt we were edging forward at the same pace, hand in hand, side by side, our minds attuned. Something warmer waited in the wings; we were inching towards it but slowly. The pace suited me fine. The last thing I wanted was to leap into bed, have mad passionate sex a few times before we both leapt out again because we’d moved too fast, tripped over the sex before really evaluating our feelings for one another. I was happy for the relationship to move at a more realistic and sustainable snail’s pace. In fact, what I really treasured, as I met his eyes across the table, those calm, honest eyes, was exactly that – the honesty that was growing between us. Although I did feel a sudden snag. That wasn’t quite true. I hadn’t revealed my suspicions or intense interest in the Clays’ suicide pact. And now I knew that however subtly I introduced the subject it would sound clumsy, misplaced and destroy that trust that a millisecond ago I had valued so high.
But it was soon obvious that Will had his own agenda.
TWENTY-EIGHT
He introduced the subjects one by one, as though he’d lined them up beforehand, beginning with one of the topics that had occupied my mind before he’d arrived.
‘Florence,’ he began, putting his fork down and looking me straight in the eye, ‘do you think you’ll ever take Mark back?’
He’d obviously been giving this matter a deal of thought and was watching me for my response. I was flattered – but cautious too. I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s done. No going back.’
‘Ever?’
He really was forcing the pace now, running, when I’d been simply strolling.
I shook my head, looking straight into those warm brown eyes, reading nothing but blunt honesty while noting the way his eyelashes flickered as I spoke. He hadn’t struck me as a man who’d needed reassurance but I knew he wanted more and so I said what had been running through my mind but leaving out my concern for Vivien – and the baby. When I thought about Mark, he was, in my mind, now sidelined, displaced by other issues. I too put my fork down and faced him. ‘The way I feel about him, Will, is pity. He’s not a bad bloke, but he’s made some bad choices.’ He was still watching me, guarded and sensitive to any misstep I might make. He said nothing and so I continued, ‘He’ll always be dad to Lara and Stuart.’ I shrugged. ‘And that’s it.’
He was watching me, his face relaxed – and curious. I took a sip of warm red wine, tasting it on my tongue. ‘Affairs are good fun while they last, I guess. Everything’s exciting.’ Even I was smiling. ‘Steamy little trysts, cloak and dagger stuff, giggling when someone spots them together and starts to string the beads into a necklace. But the consequences are all too real and quite ugly.’ My mind had reverted to Vivien and the invisible baby and maybe Will read something in my face because he reached across the table and took my hand.
I turned the conversation around. ‘What about you and Lydia?’
He shook his head. ‘It was never right, but we were both so busy in our jobs, the cracks took a long time to become fissures. We should have ended it at least five years before we did. In fact,’ he added, ‘she became a problem. At times a big problem.’
‘As in …?’
‘Not quite stalking but pretty near. In fact, that’s why I gave up on the sergeant’s exams. I was too distracted.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Florence.’
I was alert to a change in his tone.
‘Ryan Wood.’ He paused before continuing, ‘He’s bitten off more than he can chew.’
I nodded, waiting for him to enlarge.
But he didn’t. He was thoughtful. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Will about the knife wound. I could tell he was watchful, sensing there was something I was keeping back, but he didn’t pursue it. Instead, his mouth twisted and he frowned. ‘If you get a chance, Flo,’ he said, and there was an earnestness in his voice that made me study his face. ‘If you do get a chance, warn him off. Some of the guys he’s mixing with have histories of extreme violence. They won’t go easy on him. Get him away from them.’ There was urgency in both his face and his voice. ‘He’s not their sort. He doesn’t understand what these guys are like.’
His fear communicated itself to me. ‘I think he might already be in too deep.’
Will gave me a sharp look but didn’t pursue my statement. Instead, he continued, ‘We have our eye on them.’ His voice was very low now. ‘At some point we’ll be sweeping them all up. And soon. If he’s part of the haul he’ll get sent down with them. Under the law of joint enterprise he can be convicted of all their offences. Some of them we’ll be deporting. Others will go to prison.’
He was shaking his head now. ‘Ryan won’t do well in prison, Florence. He needs to put some distance between himself and them.’
He couldn’t know he was compounding my concern. I was silent for a moment, silently agreeing with him. Then I said innocently, ‘Car parts?’
I’d realized Will had a list of subjects he’d intended sharing with me. I was hoping he’d move along to the subject of the Clays’ suicide pact. But he was looking very hard at me and his response was quick. ‘What do you know about car parts?’
I told him about Gillian Angelo’s catalytic convertor and it seemed to damp down his suspicion.
‘If it was just that,’ he said, bothered about something else now, ‘we’d have banged them up months ago. It’s bigger than that and well organized. Centrally. Internationally.’
He’d lost me now, speaking to himself and frowning.
‘I don’t know why they came here of all places where, quite honestly, they stick out like a sore thumb. They could have disappeared in any of the larger conurbations: Manchester, Birmingham, Rochdale. Take your pick. Even Stoke. But they chose here. And we want to know why, what their connections are, who their connections are. Why here, Florence?’
Needless to say, I had no answer. And he patently hadn’t expected one because he continued, speaking to himself rather than to me. ‘That’s just one of the reasons why we’re holding back. We need to know more.’
I was aware that he was being unusually frank and wanted him to keep going.
He was still musing, half to himself, almost as though he’d forgotten I was even there. I wanted to prompt him – to move him on to being this frank about the Clays but I didn’t want to break the spell. ‘This is no place for them,’ he repeated. ‘Why …?’
He was patently preoccupied. I sensed I’d get nothing out of him tonight about the Clays, where the investigation was, or any detail. I clenched my teeth in disappointment, but I’d met this with Mark. He would worry at a case, trying to make sense of events that were, in themselves, senseless. But until he’d found a thread he could pull he would stick to that subject, impossible to divert to any other topic – sometimes for days and nights at a time. Until he’d finished with that one question his mind was stuck in the groove. Round and round and round and round.
Will gave me an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, again reaching across for my hand. ‘I haven’t been great company this evening, have I?’
I wanted to tell him that he was more than entertainment to me, but the only words I could find were a sort of milk sop, bland and meaningless. ‘It’s OK.’ We both stood up, sensing the evening was nearly over. I moved forward, kissed him on the cheek and stepped away, but he caught my arm, gripping it hard and pulling me towards him. ‘Florence,’ he said and covered my mouth with his own. It was a passionate kiss with some heat behind it, but we both knew the evening had been spoiled, polluted by his current case and my preoccupation with the Clays.
He left and I decided I had to put my concerns about Christine Clay on the backburner and would try and speak to Ryan.
TWENTY-NINE
10.30 p.m.
The house felt empty after I’d heard Will back down the drive. This time I hoped none of my neighbours was watching as I waved him off. No passionate kisses on the doorstep this time. After watching his taillights disappear down the road I returned to the empty room, cleared away the dishes and sat down fingering my phone. But this time I was not thinking about Mark, Vivien or the baby – born or unborn.
My mind had turned to Ryan. I agreed with Will. He was out of his depth, almost a child, in a forest of hardened criminals who would not hesitate to turn cruel if they doubted his loyalty. It was OK Will suggesting I have a word with Ryan, but there was a practical issue. I did have his mobile phone number, but what could I say in a text message? What if one of his villainous cronies picked up a message from me and, knowing my links with the police, past and present, they made a dangerous connection?
In the end my conscience forced me to act. If I didn’t and something happened to the boy I’d watched grow up with all the disadvantages a lack of family support can cause, I would always feel guilty, that I should have done something however empty and powerless.
So I typed out a bland message. Florence Shaw here, the nurse from the surgery. How is the giving up smoking going?
Sending it this late at night would be unwise. The time itself would cause suspicion so I didn’t send it. First thing in the morning would do. I put my phone away.
He probably wouldn’t respond. But bumping into him in the town would be a chance affair. Besides, every time I’d seen him in the town recently he’d been surrounded by his new ‘mates’. So I felt a bit scuppered. I liked Ryan and I did want to help but, apart from this one message, I couldn’t see how I could contact him without inviting suspicion.
And I had my own concerns. Frankly? I was worried. Yet again Mark and Vivien had receded and the Clays had moved to the fore. I felt agitated. I’d relied on finding something out from Will but I’d found out nothing.
I was too twitchy to go to bed. I had to do right by my patient but I didn’t know how to find out any facts. Will would know instinctively that I was fishing. So my list of questions remained. What line were the police taking? How would Richard Clay’s role in this tragedy be viewed? Would they ultimately blame him? Would he face any charges? Much depended on the result of the inquest.
