A Wayward Game (17 page)

“Do you
recognise him?” Neil asks, his voice quiet.

“No. I don’t
think I’ve seen him before.” I hear a slight quaver in my voice.
“Are you sure he’s watching
me
?”

“He’s certainly
watching this building, and no one else is here tonight. I suppose
he could be a burglar, casing the joint; there must be some
valuable things in that shop down on the ground floor. But I can’t
see it. I don’t think a burglar would spend so much time just
standing there looking; he’d move in when he had a chance, check
things out in more detail.” He gently takes the edge of the curtain
from my fingers, and carefully puts it back into place. “I don’t
think he noticed us looking, anyway. Turn the light back on; best
act normally. We don’t want him to know we’ve seen him. We’ll have
another look later on.”

I turn on the
light switch, and golden light floods the room. I look across at
Neil. His face is pale, his expression grave. He takes a sip of
wine, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Are you quite
sure about this?” I ask, trying to sound unconcerned. I pick up my
own glass and swallow some wine, grateful for the warmth and
courage it brings. “I really can’t think why anyone would be
watching me.”

“You’re a
journalist, and I’m a police officer. A good part of our work
involves keeping a sharp eye on people. We shouldn’t be surprised
if people retaliate in kind.” He shrugs. “We make enemies, people
like you and I. Part of our job descriptions.”

“I write about
fashion shows and celebrity diets these days. I’m not likely to
make too many enemies.”

“It wasn’t
always like that, though, was it? My God, Katherine, you once wrote
for a national broadsheet, and you tackled some pretty weighty
issues. People have long memories when it comes to that sort of
thing. And besides, the very fact that you and I are seeing each
other might raise some eyebrows. An officer of the Metropolitan
Police and a journalist – can you imagine what we might be talking
about together, what secrets we might let slip?”

I try to
repress a shudder, because of course I have always thought
something similar myself. It’s not that I allowed the fact of
Neil’s job to influence my feelings for him. It’s just that I’ve
never been quite able to forget it, either. I’ve often tried –
mostly unsuccessfully – to steer our conversations in certain
directions, to gain a greater understanding of police procedures,
or to find out things that generally remain hidden to the public at
large. But I smile dismissively as I flop down onto the bed beside
him, and take a carefree gulp of wine.

“I can’t
imagine anyone cares whether we’re involved or not,” I say. “We’re
really not that important.”

“Not in the
great scheme of things, perhaps, but we’re not entirely irrelevant
either. Besides, there are a lot of eyes and ears in a city like
London. You never know what people might notice.” He thinks for a
moment, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Look, have you noticed
anything unusual recently? Any other occasions when someone’s been
hanging around outside? Any times when you thought somebody might
be following you?”

“God, no. If
anything like that had ever happened, I’d have told you.”

We fall silent
for a moment. Outside, the scream of a distant siren cuts through
the night. The wind picks up, and sighs around the eaves. I think
of the vast sprawl of the city, and the miles of countryside
beyond: fields, meadows, woods, moors. Suburbs, and industrial
estates. Diane is out there somewhere, I think, her body slowly
being reclaimed by the earth. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes.
That’s all any of us are: a collection of atoms, held together in a
certain configuration for a certain length of time. I shiver, and
move closer to Neil.

“I don’t want
to worry you,” he says quietly. “Perhaps it’s nothing.”

“You think it
is, though.”

“I’ve stood
around watching places like that myself, many times. I know what it
looks like.” He remains silent for a moment, thinking, and then
gets up, puts his glass down on the bedside table, and pulls on his
boxer shorts. “Wait here for a moment. I want to see how secure
this place is.”

He pads out of
the bedroom and into the hallway, and I hear him moving around the
flat, checking the windows and doors. After five minutes or so, he
returns, and sits down at the end of the bed.

“You should be
fine when you’re here, anyway,” he says. “The place seems pretty
safe. Nobody could get in – not without making a great deal of
noise, at least. Be careful, though. Keep everything locked. Don’t
answer your door to strangers. Stick to busy, well-lit streets when
you go out, and don’t leave the flat after dark if you can help
it.”

“You’re really
spooked, aren’t you?” I say. I try to sound amused; indeed, part of
me wonders if this isn’t just a little flight of the imagination,
the whim of a man whose job involves envisaging different scenarios
and seeing potential crimes and criminals everywhere. But Neil’s
troubled expression tells me that this is not simply a fantasy, or
play-acting. He means it.

“I’ve become
used to people taking an interest in my business,” he says
gloomily. “People like to know what police officers get up to. And
why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t the watchers be watched? The
point is, I usually assume that I’m being subjected to a degree of
observation. What worries me, frankly, is that someone might be
watching
you
.”

“I can look
after myself.”

“Can you?” He
looks across at me. “That’s the impression you give, certainly.
Hard as nails, like you don’t give a damn. I don’t think it’s
really true, though, is it?”

I shrug,
slightly embarrassed. He moves closer to me, and puts his hand on
my knee.

“You know,” he
says, a little awkwardly, “if anything happens, or you’re worried
about something, you can call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.
Don’t hesitate.”

“Thank you,” I
say, and I mean it. His kindness and concern affect me far more
than any amount of indifference could, and to my mortification I
feel my throat constricting, and a tear seeping out of my eye. Why
am I crying, damn it? I’m not frightened of people who stand in
shop doorways and stare into windows. But I’m frightened of
something, and I’m not even sure what it is. Death, perhaps. Or
life. Loneliness. I don’t know.

I glance at
Neil, and fear that I’ll see disillusionment in his face. Some men
want Dominas to be impervious; they lose interest when the mask
slips, and they see the fragile human beneath the facade. In Neil’s
face, though, I see only concern, and something that looks almost
like love. He leans over and kisses me gently on the lips. And
before I know what is happening, we’re in each other’s arms and
kissing each other deeply, hungrily. I slip further down onto the
bed, and he shifts on top of me. We begin to caress each other’s
bodies, and in spite of my tears and the tight ache of grief in my
body, I feel a surge of excitement. I tug at his boxers, and push
them down over his hips. And then, quite suddenly, he’s inside me.
No questions, no games, no submission or dominance – and, I think,
no condom. But the thought comes to me vaguely, from a thousand
miles away it seems, and is so remote that I barely even register
it. All I can think is that we are here, making love, simply and
passionately, like any man and woman might. And this, I know, is
the most wayward game we could possibly play.

Martin
Stevenson, I remind myself as I approach his house, did not ask for
his five minutes of fame – or notoriety, if you prefer. He once
seemed quite content to be living in obscurity, or so his
circumstances would suggest. He has been married to the same woman
for almost twenty years, and they live together in one of the
quieter, more select corners of London. Since leaving school,
Stevenson has worked as a chef. He started his career in the
kitchen of a rather upmarket pub in Hampstead, and then worked his
way up through some of the most fashionable restaurants in the
capital. Now, he owns and manages a restaurant in Richmond, and –
one might hope – is enjoying the fruits of years of hard work.

Eight years
ago, this life of apparent industry and contentment was interrupted
when Stevenson, according to his testimony, was the last person to
see Diane. As a result, both the police and media spotlights caught
him in their glare, and though the light may be less blinding than
it once was, he could be forgiven for being a little dazzled by it
still. And, I remind myself, he is unlikely to respond well to yet
another journalistic intrusion, another request for information
that she has shared a hundred times already.

On the other
hand, he might almost be accustomed to going over the same ground –
so accustomed to it, in fact, that one more request to tell his
story might not represent too weighty a burden. He has, after all,
spoken to police, private investigators, reporters and camera crews
in the past eight years, and perhaps even enjoys the attention. So,
at least, I hope; but as I open the small wrought iron gate and
walk down the neat garden path, I can’t help but feel that this is
a terrible intrusion. A necessary one, as Frieda would no doubt
tell me, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

I ring the
doorbell, and straight away hear yapping, and see the vague shape
of a dog bounding along the hallway behind the frosted glass of the
door. A few moments later I hear footsteps, and catch sight of
someone – a man, I think – ambling up to the door. A hand fumbles
with a lock, and the door opens to reveal a man of average height
and rather stocky build, with short hair that might once have been
blond but is now white. He is one of those adults who seem never to
have left their infancy entirely behind, and his bland, chubby face
is that of a contented, overgrown baby. He looks mild, and rather
complacent. I smile as he gives me a questioning glance.

“Mr Stevenson?”
I ask. The dog – an Old English Sheepdog, as it turns out – jumps
up and paws at me, and I reach down and stroke its head.

“Yes?”

“I wonder if I
might have a word. Lucy Lowry, South West London Gazette.” I hand
over my filched work ID (
forgive me, Lucy
) and hope that
Stevenson will be taken in. He squints down at the card, and then
back at me, and I see that he suddenly looks nervous and
guarded.

“You’ve come
about Diane Meath-Jones, I suppose,” he says, and his voice is
slightly peevish. “It couldn’t possibly be about anything
else.”

“Yes. Could I
talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Wait a minute.
How on earth did you find out where I live?”

“The electoral
roll,” I say, with an apologetic smile.

“Oh.” Mr
Stevenson frowns. “Well, I’m acquainted with the tricks you
journalists sometimes play, of course. Frankly, though, I’m amazed
that you’re bothering, after all this time. The poor girl’s been
gone for eight years now, more or less. Why on earth do you want to
keep digging over the past like this?”

“I’m putting
together a report about the case. It may be old news, but it still
arouses a great deal of interest.”

“I suppose the
vultures will keep circling,” Stevenson grumbles. “I can only tell
you what I’ve told others a thousand times before.”

“I’m sorry to
trouble you, Mr Stevenson, but really—” A sudden flicker of
inspiration dawns in my brain, and I add: “I understand it’s an
imposition, but I might be able to help you in return. I understand
you own a restaurant near here.”

“Yes, the Vine
Tree. Richmond.” A greedy look clouds his features. “Are you
offering something in the way of publicity? A feature,
perhaps?”

“We could
certainly arrange something like that, yes. Our restaurant critic
is very well respected, and his views tend to carry a great deal of
weight locally. If I were to have a word in his ear—”

“Oh. Oh well,
in that case you’d better come in. I can only spare you five
minutes or so, mind; there are some errands I need to run.”

Stevenson leads
me into a chintzy, decidedly feminine living room, the dog trotting
at our heels. Mrs Stevenson may not be at home – so far there’s
been neither sight nor sound of her – but she is very much in
evidence. I’m struck by the over-the-top opulence of this suburban
house. There’s an antique grandfather clock at the far end of the
room, with the words TEMPUS FUGIT carved into the wooden casing in
elaborate script. An old painting, dark and dirty with age, hangs
on the wall; it depicts a stormy sea, and a cargo ship ploughing
through the waves towards the distant shore. There’s a display case
filled with antique vases, a porcelain dinner set, and various
items of gold- and silverware that gleam in the morning light. The
Stevensons are clearly wealthy – the Vine Tree must be doing very
good business – and yet there’s very little here to indicate any
great good taste. They seem to have bought whatever took their
fancy, with little regard to its merit, and have furnished and
decorated their house piecemeal. There’s no overarching design
plan, no dominant theme or effect, and no harmony. In some houses
this would indicate chaotic contentment; here, it suggests only
jangling, lavish discord.

“You’re
something of a collector, I see,” I say cautiously, sitting down on
the lumpy, rather hard sofa – another antique piece, I suppose. I
take out a notepad and pen, and the dog slumps down at my feet.

“I’m not, but
my wife is. I spend most of my time at work.” His accent is Essex,
I think, softened by years of living in these genteel suburbs and
working for the privileged and wealthy. “I’m not much of a
homebody, to tell you the truth. I prefer to be out doing things.
Some people said I was taking a risk when I opened my own
restaurant, but the prospect was to me invigorating rather than
alarming. I saw it as a calculated gamble.”