Fault Lines (32 page)

Collons looked as though he was about to cry again. His head wobbled. ‘Nor do I,’ he said at last, the words coming softly between his lips like a sigh. ‘I’m just sure that there is some kind of a connection.’

‘I see, sir.’ Femur slapped his notes into order and screwed the top on his felt-tip. He felt slightly less angry with Trish Maguire: if she’d been listening to this sort of stuff, she might well have hesitated to dump it on him and his officers. ‘Thank you for telling me all about it. I’m sorry you were unwell earlier, and I expect you’ll feel more comfortable back at home.’

The little man leaned right across the table and grabbed Femur by the wrist. ‘But you will follow it up, won’t you?’

‘We’ll do what’s necessary. Don’t you worry.’

‘That’s not good enough. You have to get Drakeshill in and –’

Femur removed Blair’s hand and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s all I can promise at this stage. I’m grateful to you for telling me all about your theories, although it would have been helpful if you’d come forward earlier. But I’m satisfied that you’ve told us all you know now and so I’ll say goodbye for the moment.’

‘You mean, I’ve just got to go? With everyone knowing I’ve been here, talking to you?’

‘We can hardly keep you in custody, since you haven’t committed any crime.’

Collons whispered something about ‘protective custody’.

Femur got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry so much, Mr Collons. I’ve said I’ll look into it. You go on home, take a couple of aspirins and get some sleep. You’ll feel right as rain in no time.’

Trish had never attended an identity parade before, and, in spite of what she’d said to Femur, she wasn’t at all sure that she would be able to recognise the face she’d seen only for a few seconds. But, in fact, it was easy. Walking along the glass wall with DC Lyalt in attendance, staring at ten snub-nosed, dark-haired white men in their early twenties, Trish knew him at once.

‘It’s number eight.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked DC Lyalt. ‘We need to be sure you’re right.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Trish crisply, wondering how much the constable knew about what had happened to her. She didn’t seem quite as sympathetic as Trish thought she should be. ‘It’s him. Number eight is the man who attacked me, ripped my leg with his screwdriver, and was rugger-tackled by George. I saw his face then, and again later when I tried to trip him as he ran out of my flat. I’d go into the witness box on it any day.’

‘You’ll have to.’

‘That’s fine.’ Trish laughed at her expression. ‘Don’t look so worried, Constable Lyalt, I’m used to standing up in court. They won’t shake me.’

‘No,’ said DC Lyalt with a considering, half-admiring expression in her eyes. ‘I don’t suppose they will. OK, thanks, Ms Maguire.’

‘And there is one other thing,’ Trish said, staring at number eight’s arms. ‘I’ve only just remembered. He’s got a vile tattoo. On his right arm, I think, about a couple of inches above his wrist on the inside of his forearm. It’s a snake eating the guts of a woman, who’s been half disembowelled.’

‘Sure? If you’re not …’

‘I’m sure,’ said Trish. ‘Get them all to roll up their sleeves. You’ll see.’

After DC Lyalt had given the instruction through the intercom, the men behind the one-way glass rolled up their sleeves. Number eight was obviously reluctant and Trish shot a triumphant look at DC Lyalt, who nodded, but did not look away until the tattoo was revealed.

‘Well done, Ms Maguire. We’ll be OK now. Thanks.’

She spoke into the intercom again and the officer on the other side of the glass told the men they could go. Something about the way number eight moved tweaked at Trish’s memory, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Then he bent to pick up something from the floor and she recognised the shape of his back. She turned to DC Lyalt.

‘D’you know? I think I might have seen him somewhere before.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Trish couldn’t think why DC Lyalt should look worried by that piece of news until she realised that it might be evidence of mistaken identity.

‘Yes. But don’t worry: he’s definitely the man who attacked me in my flat.’

DC Lyalt’s good-looking face relaxed.

‘But I think I may also have seen him at Drakeshill’s Used Cars in Kingsford. I couldn’t swear to that, but I’m reasonably confident it’s the same bloke.’

‘That is quite interesting in an anecdotal sort of way, but if you couldn’t swear to it, it’s not much use to us.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Trish said peaceably. ‘As a matter of interest?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did George pick out number eight, too? You won’t be breaking any confidences because I’ll ask him as soon as I get out of here.’

DC Lyalt smiled, revealing a much livelier, more interesting character than the efficient, passionless officer she had seemed at first. ‘He did.’

‘Great. And
does
number eight have anything to do with Drakeshill?’

At that question, DC Lyalt’s official expression came back over her face like some kind of security shutter.

‘Oh, go on. It can’t do any harm to tell me, if I’m not going into the witness box on the question of where I first saw him.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Lyalt, sounding much more like a friend than a police officer. ‘You could have seen him there because he does work for Drakeshill.’

‘Doing what exactly?’

‘Come on, Ms Maguire, you know I can’t tell you anything like that.’

‘Pity. Let me know if you need anything else.’

‘We will. But you’ve done OK, Ms Maguire. We’re all very grateful.’

‘What, just for identifying him?’ said Trish, in surprise.

‘No. I probably shouldn’t tell you this. Actually, I’m sure I shouldn’t. But since you were a friend of Kara Huggate’s, I’m going to. We hadn’t any evidence before you were attacked. Your quickness in getting hold of the screwdriver, even more than your identification, is the first real break we’ve had. You will keep that to yourself, won’t you?’

‘Naturally,’ said Trish, taking in the full import of what DC Lyalt had said. ‘Then you do think he’s the one who killed Kara?’

The other woman nodded, her face full of sympathy, as Trish leaned against the wall. The thought of what could have happened to her if George had not appeared just then made her head swim again. She covered her mouth with her hand as she remembered the instant when she’d understood that she was not going to be able to get away. Looking back through the glass at the place where her attacker had been standing, she said, ‘He is on remand, I take it?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s got enough of a record to make sure of that. No hot-shot barrister is going to persuade any magistrate to take the risk of a man like that reoffending.’

Trish’s guts lurched as she wondered which of her colleagues at the bar would have the task of defending her attacker – Kara’s killer. It might be someone like Jeremy Platen, whose skill at persuading juries that they couldn’t convict on the evidence before them was legendary. As far as Trish could remember, he had never acted for the defence in a murder trial and seen his client convicted. Never had the barrister’s perennial dilemma of giving their all to the defence of a man they loathed seemed so difficult. If Kara’s killer got off because of clever arguments or a gullible jury, Trish knew she would never be able to go home after dark without fear. And if it were a friend of hers who’d got him off, she would be faced with an insoluble dilemma of her own.

Abruptly, and without another word to DC Lyalt, Trish went out to find George. He took one look at her face and put an arm round her. But he didn’t ask any questions. In the car, he put a Brahms concerto on the CD player so that she wouldn’t have to talk and drove smoothly back into London. As they reached Wandsworth, he turned down the volume, glanced at her and said, ‘Now that we know your attacker is safely in custody, would you like to go back to Southwark? Or would you prefer to stay on in Fulham for a bit?’

Trish put her hand on his thigh. He took one hand off the steering wheel to lay it over hers.

‘Southwark, if you really don’t mind, George. The SOCO’s finished there, and I would like to get it cleared up.’

‘I thought so. And you do feel confined in my house, don’t you?’

‘A bit.’ Trish thought about the chintz and the antiques, and the smallness of the rooms, and the fact that everything in it belonged to George. But then she thought of being alone in Southwark again if the man she had just identified was not convicted and shuddered.

‘Don’t fret about it. I know you like wide open spaces in a way I don’t much. It doesn’t matter.’

She let her head droop on to his shoulder for a second, full of all the usual conflicting emotions. He ruffled her hair casually. She got the feeling that he understood at least some of her muddle. Perhaps he even shared it.

Later, when her flat was tidy again and all the bloody feathers had been collected and bagged up for the binmen, George volunteered to get some food to restock the almost empty fridge.

‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ Trish said at once. ‘There’s no need for you to do my shopping. You’ve done so much already.’

‘Rest your weary legs, my love,’ he said, misquoting one of his favourite poems. She only just recognised it as Auden’s ‘Lullaby’. ‘I won’t be long.’

When he’d left her alone in the flat, it struck her that he was a remarkably generous man. She remembered telling him once that he was like Kara and she wondered whether, like Kara, he had a talent for seeing through people’s masks of contentment to the unacknowledged sadness they carried around with them. The idea was startling enough to make her think again about their argument and face the possibility that the icy black knot in the centre of her memories of her father might not be fury after all, but something only Kara and George had recognised for what it was.

After a while, she realised she was going to have to do something about it. She reached for the phone and then, remembering she had no idea of his number, bent down to the bottom drawer of her desk for one of the unopened letters.

‘Hello?’ she said tentatively, when she heard his voice. ‘Is that Paddy Maguire?’

‘It is. Is it you, Trish?’ His voice was so eager that she felt squeezed with shame.

‘Yes. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to ring back.’

‘That’s fine, my dear. And how are you?’

‘Fine. Fine. And you?’

‘All the better for hearing your voice. You’re not too busy now?’

‘Well, no, not just at the moment,’ she said, bridling a little at the mischievous laughter in his voice. It sounded much more richly Trish than she remembered.

‘I shouldn’t be teasing you now, should I? Although you used to like being teased in the old days.’

‘Did I?’ The question had come out rather cold, but she couldn’t help that.

‘You did. But it’s a long time ago. And we’ve all changed. I’m well aware of that, Trish.’

‘Yes.’

‘I read about you in the paper, you know.’

‘Yes, I’d realised that must be why you’d rung.’

‘And I’m very proud of you.’

Various bitter little responses occurred to Trish, but she swallowed them all down like medicine, and tried to do what she’d intended when she rang him. ‘I’m glad.’ It was surprising how easy it had been to say it and so she said it again. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Good,’ he said simply.

There had been no surprise or even gratitude in his voice; but she thought there had been an acknowledgement of the magnitude of what she was doing.

‘And how are you really, Trish? You don’t sound your usual brisk self, m’dear.’

‘I’m not too bad. Although my leg’s still sore. But that’s only to be expected.’

‘Leg? What leg?’ Paddy Maguire sounded urgent in his concern, almost aggressive. ‘What happened to you?’

And Trish found herself telling him everything, answering his warm, sensible questions as fully as she could, even explaining why she had ever put herself at such risk.

‘And this friend of yours,’ he said at the end, ‘this Kara, was she worth it now?’

‘Kara?’ said Trish, as quite unexpected tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She sniffed. ‘Yes, she was worth it. And if what happened to me does help convict her killer, as the police seem to think it might, then my leg won’t matter a toss.’

‘And if he’s not convicted? You will take care now, won’t you, Trish? I don’t want to …’ Paddy paused, then said, much faster than usual, ‘I don’t want to be hearing that something bad has happened to you.’

Trish didn’t know what to say. That he had latched instantly on to her own worst fears was at once reassuring and seemed to make them worse.

‘OK. Now, do you think we might meet?’ he went on, sounding more tentative. ‘When your leg’s better. I’d like to see you, Trish.

I won’t ask you to come here to my house, if you don’t want to, but we could meet in a restaurant maybe.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose we could.’

‘And you could bring your young man if you felt like it, or come on your own. Whichever you prefer.’

‘Would you be bringing …?’ Trish wasn’t sure she could bring herself to mention the name of the bimbo he’d run off with all those years ago.

‘Bianca? No, Trish.’ He sounded untroubled. ‘She left me years ago. I’m not living with anyone now. If you’d feel easier having other people with us, I could ask a friend, but you’ve no stepmother so you don’t have to worry about that.’

‘Could I think about it, and ring you back?’

‘Sure. But don’t forget now, and don’t take too long. I want to see you, you know. Get to know you again.’

‘I won’t forget. I’m … I’m glad we talked.’

‘Me, too. And it wasn’t so bad, was it?’ There was so much humour in his voice that Trish couldn’t help smiling.

‘No, Paddy,’ she said at last, ‘it wasn’t so bad.’

‘Great. And I hope it’ll get easier still. You know, I’ve regretted what I did every day of my life for the past twenty years and more. Goodbye for now, Trish.’

He didn’t leave her a chance to say anything, which was probably just as well as she wouldn’t have known how to respond to the apology she’d thought she had to have. With the sound of his voice echoing in her ears and pictures from the past flashing through her mind again, she sat wondering just how much she had sacrificed to her stubborn refusal to talk to him for so long.