Dying for Millions (18 page)

Into the night air at last. Give a lift to a couple of other sopranos. Park with some determination. Sweep into the bar. To find Jess (Brum for Guiseppe) in charge, his parents having flown out to Parma to a family funeral. No food. Not so much as a packet of crisps. To be sociable, I drank a glass of mineral water, and then excused myself. At the last moment, Mo, one of the sopranos, changed her mind and wanted a lift home. Good job I had someone with me, really. Because when I saw what was inside my car, I keeled right over.

I came to in what proved to be the family's room above the bar at The Duke of Clarence. I worked that out from all the photographs: Luigi and Maria; Luigi and Jess; Maria and Jess; Luigi and Maria and Jess. All of them, individually and collectively, along with Jasper the dog and his illustrious predecessors. And there was Mo, leaning over me with concern in every angle of her body. What I couldn't understand was why my eyes should be streaming and my nose on fire. Smelling salts? There was only one person I knew who carried smelling salts …

A finger touched my cheek: tentatively, I'd say, rather than tenderly.

‘Sophie?'

‘Chris! Thought you were down south.'

‘I was. Thought I'd come back up for the weekend. Thought I might find you here. Not out cold, though.'

Struggling to the vertical, I smeared away some smelling-salt tears. ‘Hungry, that's all.' And then I saw his face. ‘
Nearly
all.'

‘Tell me,' he said.

A glass of milk appeared from somewhere. And some sliced supermarket white bread.

‘Jess'll have to get rid of the evidence before his parents get home,' I said. ‘But the butter's fresh.'

‘So I should hope,' Chris said, ‘and so were the flowers on that wreath.'

While my mouth was telling him all that had been going on, my brain was worrying about getting my car back, either to Harborne – or to Chris's house in Edgbaston. I knew he wouldn't want me to drive, although I was beginning to feel much better. Come to think of it, now I swung my feet to the floor – who'd have thought Maria and Luigi could be guilty of such a carpet? – I really didn't feel like driving. It would in any case mean having to decide where I was going.

At last, with Jess trying not to hover over me to hint that it was very late and I was wearing thin his hospitality, I rounded off the story. I realised Mo had gone: she'd have had to bum a lift from someone else. ‘Which car shall we leave here?' I asked baldly.

‘Neither. I'm having yours taken back to Rose Road, to let the Forensic Science team give it a valeting. You never know what they'll find. I'll take you back to your place – or mine. Whichever is more convenient.' So he didn't want to make a decision either.

‘All my shopping's in my car,' I said.

He looked grave. ‘Nothing's in your car. Nothing at all.'

He was exaggerating, of course. But when I saw my little Renault at Rose Road Police Station the following morning, I was glad he'd let me believe that my shopping had been stolen. The loo rolls and kitchen towels had been shredded, as if a giant gerbil had been at work; tea was scattered everywhere; muesli ditto. They'd left me my marking, but had soaked it in red ink. My tapes were still intact, but Chris told me they'd been wiped, probably with a magnet.

And the tights? It suddenly occurred to me that he'd not mentioned the tights.

Back in his office, he leaned across his desk, like a doctor about to impart news of a terminal illness.

‘I was hoping you wouldn't ask,' he said grimly. ‘Someone's – cut pieces out of them.'

‘Any pieces in particular?'

A pause.

‘The crotch. And then – they've been tied into a bow, round the wreath.'

I nodded: I supposed it was to be expected. ‘The wreath. Did it come with a card?' I should have asked before. ‘What was on the card?'

‘A valediction to Andy Rivers. I gather from Diane Stephenson it's not the first. Sophie, what on earth have you said to put her back up? I've never known her like this – she's like a demented porcupine.'

‘Could it be anxiety? That now she's done half the work, you're going to muscle in and take all the glory?'

‘Which I assure you I'm not. It's her case – I'm back on the course on Monday. And I didn't get the impression it was me she resented – OK, I would say that, wouldn't I? But Ian's not happy about the situation between you—'

‘To what – rather, to whom – does he attribute it?' It was typical of Chris to assume it was my fault we didn't get on; my anger was demanding an outlet.

‘Oh, you know what he's like with younger officers.'

‘No, I don't. I've never seen him anything other than supportive where you're concerned. But then, you treat him like a human being.'

His face closed.

How dared he back this incompetent young woman against Ian and myself! Damn it, we were still supposed to be lovers, though the emphasis after last night was definitely on the word, “supposed'. Yes, we'd shared a bed – at my house, on the grounds that my central-heating was on and the bed made up. But he had been so solicitous about my ‘exhaustion' – when was I ever too exhausted for a nice bonk? – that it was clear he at least was not in the mood. He never was a man for protracted cuddles, and I wasn't surprised when he presented a cold back, which he didn't want warmed. He had been up and pyjama'ed by the time I surfaced, wearing his own dressing-gown.

I looked at his neatly organised desk and found I was shaking – with rage, with humiliation, with rejection. I wanted to hurt him, but I couldn't deny a lurking belief that if anyone were to get to the bottom of the threats against, the attacks on, Andy, it would be Chris. Deep-breath time.

‘Any idea when I'll be able to have my car back?'

‘Monday or Tuesday, I should think.' His voice was offhand.

‘Oh.'

‘Is that a problem?'

‘Well – being without your wheels—'

‘You managed well enough without a car for years! I seem to remember urging you times without number to get one and you always found an excuse not to.'

‘I seem to have developed petrol feet over the last few months. And I need one for my new job.'

If that was meant as a conversational lifeline, it didn't work. ‘You'll have to take taxis for a bit, won't you? And you can't possibly regard your car as a safe means of transport. Bit of a liability, I'd have thought.' He managed a smile at last, but it was ironic.

I shrugged. Perhaps the view from the window would inspire me.

‘How's Karen's mum?'

‘I've not even looked at the file, Sophie.'

Plainly, it hadn't.

‘Of course. But when you've had a chance to talk to people, perhaps you'd give me a buzz. Or perhaps you could ask Ian to—'

‘See what I can do.' He stood up; the interview was at an end.

It was hardly worth catching a bus back from Harborne to Balden Road, but I regretted the bulky carrier bags: replacement tapes; tights from Boots, since for some inexplicable reason Safeway had stopped producing small thick tights; muesli; loo rolls; kitchen towels. The delicatessen provided deliquescent and delectable St Agur and some Cornish Yarg, and an organic loaf so solid you could have used it as a house-brick. Salad. Meat? Would Chris expect to eat his Sunday lunch with me, as he usually did when he was in Birmingham? Steak or chicken? Perhaps, I was just too tired to care.

When I got home, my fingers cut deep by the polythene carrier handles, there were no messages on my answering machine. Not one. No post either. And it was starting to snow. Perhaps what I needed to do was go into town and exercise my Barclaycard: how would Rackhams rate for personal safety? And then it occurred to me, like a blow to my stomach, that, apart from his disparaging remark about my car, Chris had made no mention of protecting me. Times they were a-changing, indeed.

It was weird, using Ian as a source of information. But if Chris hadn't known about Karen and Ford, then Ian would, and he might be cajoled into spilling enough information. However, it was Stephenson who took the call.

‘Ms Rivers? I hope you're recovered from your experience last night. Most unfortunate.'

‘I didn't make it any better by skipping lunch,' I said.

‘Funny how crises always erupt when you unwrap a sandwich,' she said. ‘And then – the indigestion!'

Anyone else and I'd have thought we were having a conversation.

‘I find bicarbonate of soda helps,' she said.

Perhaps we were.

‘Bicarb? How?'

‘About an eighth of a teaspoon in warm water. Not hot. Shifts the wind.'

‘I'll remember that. Look, I hope you don't mind my asking –' I too can be conciliatory – ‘but I was wondering how Karen got on last night.'

‘Christ on a fucking bike! Talk about love's young dream! I tell you, it would have saved us a lot of trouble if she'd met Ford Scott before last Saturday.'

‘You believe her?'

‘Let's just say we've eliminated her from our enquiries. For the time being.'

‘Thank goodness for that.' I was almost warming to the woman.

‘So now we'll be looking more closely, I'm afraid, at Mr Rivers himself.'

Deciding that the snow really meant it, I gave up the idea of a shopathon. I would do homely things like washing and ironing: securely bolted in, that is. And I would call Griff to find out what was happening to Andy, and, with a bit of luck, persuade him to get Andy to call me. A natter would be nice. Except there were all those things we couldn't talk about, lest we be overheard.

In the event, there was a bonus. The snow stopped, and I had a call from Shahida: would I like to eat with them and help bath Maria? I would. And to put gilt on the gingerbread Shahida's minicab driver brother-in-law would collect me and bring me home.

Made-up, and wearing something elegant but childproof, I felt much better. I knew from experience that Arun's sense of punctuality was poetic, so didn't worry when he didn't arrive promptly. In fact, I could make good use of the time.

Ollie. And by some miracle, his phone was switched on.

He never was much of a man for preliminaries. ‘Sophie? Look, I'm working. Gig at the NEC.

‘It's about Andy's gig, actually,' I said.

‘Bad business. And the fuzz keep shoving their noses in – give them their due, they never stop – but they're no further forrarder.'

At least the shoving was good news.

‘No further at all?'

‘No. They come and hassle decent working men, but you can tell they're in the dark. Nice bit of skirt – sorry, Sophie – in charge though. I could fancy her. And Phiz is really smitten.'

‘Surprise, surprise.'

‘The lads are running a book on how long it takes him to get his hands in her knickers.'

‘Well, they would. Tell me, is it the same team as the Music Centre gig?'

‘More or less. Why?'

‘I fancy doing a bit of poking around on my own account. After all, it was my cousin they were after.'

‘Not what young Diane says. She'd like to nail Andy, if you ask me. Said something about bringing him to Brum for questioning – hello? Sorry, Sophie. Someone I need to talk to.'

‘OK. I'll be as quick as I can. It's not just that they're after the wrong person – it means the right one could go unpunished. And that person's still at large.' I remembered my car, but thought better of telling him. ‘Any remote chance you could let me have a list of the lads involved in Andy's gig? After all, you must have prepared one for the fuzz.'

‘Should be able to put my hand on one for you. Why not have a pub lunch with me tomorrow and I'll give it you then? Give me a bell, twelvish? See you, darling!'

A blessedly efficient man, Ollie. His filing system was so neat and efficient even Chris would have found it a home from home.

A peremptory ring announced the arrival of Arun.

‘I'm sorry to bring you out on a night like this,' I said.

‘Working anyway. And it's nothing like Afghanistan. Man, you should see the snow there! That's what I
call
snow. This – this isn't worthy of the name.'

Looked at it like that, I supposed it wasn't.

‘How's Fozia? She must be near her time.'

‘Pretty big! Tell you what, Sophie, I'll be glad when it's all over. Funny thing,' he said, dropping his voice sheepishly, ‘I've got beyond wanting it to be a boy. I mean, it'd be nice, and all that, but I just want to – you know, have her all right again.'

‘Of course. No more thoughts,' I added, not very kindly, ‘of going out to fight?'

‘Kabul's no place for a family man.'

‘Absolutely. So now what?'

A ruminative silence.

‘Well,' he admitted, ‘you know Shahida's always on at me to get my qualifications. Not that she should be working, not now she's a mother. Her place is at home.'

I didn't bite.

‘So I thought I might do something at night school, like. Get some GCSEs.'

Thank goodness for that! I'd always hoped the idea of freedom fighting for Islam might pall. Arun was a bright young man – nearly as bright as his wife, whom I'd taught years ago. He'd been bored for years: perhaps fatherhood and study would be the twin answer.

What Shahida hadn't told me was that she was matchmaking again. I was all ready to don the PVC apron which is mine at bath-time when this delectable young man with almond-shaped eyes came into the living room. He was about five foot six – not that you look for height when you're only five foot one – and about my age. Afzal. A solicitor. So what was such a man doing unmarried, especially when it seems to be the ambition of every Muslim family I know to marry both sons and daughters off when they're hardly into their twenties?