Fragile Cord (31 page)

Coupland knew it was
his duty to tell Angus the truth, to fill in the missing blanks
before he heard it from the coroner’s report or an over zealous
journalist. He knew by doing so he risked tainting the love Angus
had for his wife and his son, but was it right to continue letting
him believe Tracey had obliterated all they’d created for no
reason?

Coupland didn’t think so.

Who could have known that an
innocent day out at the cinema would shake the young family to its
very foundation.

Tracey had been
terrified of her secret coming out. In her mind, her actions
protected a man she loved dearly from humiliation and scandal.
Hadn’t she realised, Coupland mused, that the living hell she’d
jettisoned Angus into wasn’t any better, that given the chance he’d
have chosen humiliation and scandal with his family beside him over
the empty shell that his life had become?

It was terrifying,
Coupland thought, the number of ways the human mind could delude
itself. Despite everything Tracey had done they’d stumbled upon her
secret anyway, thanks to the willingness of certain senior officers
to come clean about the arrangements made on Tracey’s behalf. He
hoped it was possible to contain the news for a few days longer,
give Angus time to draw breath.

Coupland looked over at Alex and shook
his head slightly; saw the relief in her eyes.

It would keep for another day.

Alex rummaged in her
bag, placed Tracey’s Filofax on the coffee table between them.
‘There’s a name in Tracey’s contact list that I’m interested in
Angus.’ She said:

‘Ricky Wilson.’

She studied his face
as she said the name, he stared straight back at her.

‘How did she know him?’ She asked.

‘Tracey used to
arrange a lot of my business meetings, send out bills, annual
Christmas cards, that sort of thing. It wasn’t unusual for her to
keep duplicate contact details in her address book.’ He answered
easily enough. ‘Ricky is a client.’

‘
Was
a client.’ Coupland
corrected.

Angus blinked at
him.

‘Sorry?’

Jesus, he didn’t
know.

‘When did you last see Ricky?’ Coupland
cut in quickly.

‘I’m not sure.’ He
shrugged, ‘Couple of months ago, I’d need to check. I helped him
with a council tender, gave him a bit of advice. That was pretty
much it. Why, what’s happened?’

‘Ricky’s dead.’ Alex
said as softly as she could.

‘Murdered outside a
local bar. It’s been in all the papers.’

‘If you hadn’t
noticed, so have I.’ Angus shot back bitterly. ‘Diane wouldn’t let
me read any in case it set me off again, you know?’

Alex nodded.

‘How well did you know him?’

‘I didn’t know him
socially, if that’s what you mean. He’d been a bit of a rough
diamond in his youth from what I gather, still liked to think he
could handle himself. Went drinking in the types of bars I wouldn’t
dream of going into, but then he’s a local, sorry,
was
a local, and I’m
not. He was one of my business development clients. He’d needed
help with marketing and advice concerning a maintenance contract
with a local property developer. I’d helped him secure several
large contracts across Salford which had virtually doubled his
business.’ Angus’s neck seemed
to sink
into his shoulders. His face took on a bewildered look. ‘Christ,
poor Rick, he was a nice enough guy.’

‘That’s the problem.’ Coupland observed
quietly.

‘They always bloody are.’

Closing time at The Press Room bar
brought the usual rowdy banter as colleagues stumbled out into the
balmy night, back to waiting families if their shift was over, or
the news-room if it had just begun. Some hesitated as the fresh air
disorientated them – they’d been fine all the while they’d been
sitting down, now, standing outside, the stone flags beneath their
feet seemed to move, take on a life of their own.

The man stumbled halfway across the
road, dropping his car keys. The traffic was quiet along this
stretch of the town, a couple of taxis going to and from the
airport, nothing major. He had time to stop, ponder where they
might have got to before swooping to retrieve them when his eyes
adjusted to the street lights above.

Coupland watched and waited. Made sure
the key had gone into the lock of the driver’s door before quietly
speaking into his radio. The patrol car was parked in a side
street. The officers had only to coast the squad car around the
corner; the flashing lights were really only put on for effect. The
man seemed to shrink when they asked him to blow into the bag.
Cursed himself silently for not walking the short distance to his
next meeting. He was a freelance. How was he supposed to do his job
now if he lost his fucking licence?

Coupland lowered his driver’s window
and looked into the eyes of the journalist who had taken Tracey
Kavanagh’s photo and sold it onto the Evening News, changing the
trajectory of her life in the flash of a light-bulb. He’d taken the
bait greedily, barely concealing his delight when Coupland phoned
to say he was willing to meet with him, give him the exclusive he’d
been angling for. He held the man’s unsteady gaze for a split
second before quietly pulling away.

It was nowhere near as satisfying as
the crunching of bone; even Coupland had to admit that. But, in the
grand scheme of things the journalist had got his come-uppance,
Coupland kept his pension and the traffic boys met their target for
the night. Even DCI Curtis would have to concede, a result all
round.

There were times when Coupland
would return to his home and crave a little silence. Amy and her
girlfriends would set up camp in the living room, the stereo
booming tracks he’d no chance of translating let alone enjoy. There
would be talk of boys and whispers of men and he’d find himself
listening out for names he recognised for all the wrong
reasons.

Lynn, keen to put some distance
between her own day and the evening ahead would zero in on him,
bombarding him with questions even though some days were too awful
to recount. At times like those he’d crave peace and quiet, an
ice-cold beer and a read of the sports page without his opinion
being sought or worse still, his brute force required to unblock a
sink or a toilet or put out the bin. He grimaced at his stupidity.
Tonight Lynn would be home late, she was briefing her replacement
in readiness for her operation in two days’ time. She’d left him a
casserole in the fridge, with instructions on how long to heat it
up in the microwave. Amy, it seemed, was out on a date.

How he missed them. He had a
family who welcomed him home every night, a wife and a daughter who
gave a damn, on most days anyway, who were on his side no matter
what, yet he’d had the audacity to resent it, craving a silence
that now overwhelmed him. He wondered what the future held: him on
first name terms with the local takeaway, nothing to look forward
to other than the perfunctory visits from Amy when she was short of
cash?

He looked out onto the
wasteland that was his garden with shame. Lynn had been going on at
him for years to get someone in to lick it into shape, neither of
them were green fingered and the hours they worked made it hard to
keep any sort of routine going. It struck him that in all the years
they’d lived there he hadn’t done anything to make the garden an
enjoyable place to spend time in. The overgrown shrubs needed
cutting back, what bit of lawn he could see beneath the overlong
grass needed serious weeding. The state of it told him that it
would be ball-breaking work but Lynn would love the transformation.
With some decent garden furniture it might be somewhere peaceful
for her to recuperate; they could spend time in it enjoying what
time they had. He was struck then by an idea that was so obvious he
wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before, and for the first
time in two days he smiled.

Visiting hours were long since
finished but the flash of his warrant card met with no resistance.
Joe was propped up in bed sipping what looked like a smoothie
through a straw. His face was a mass of different shades of skin
held together by livid red scars.

Only part of his chin would ever
need shaving.

Joe’s eyes told Coupland he was
pleased he had come. When he finished his drink he passed it to
Coupland who sniffed it before returning it to the table at the
side of Joe’s bed. Orange, mango, nutmeg? He asked. Joe shook his
head slowly, ‘I don’t know what’s in it but it’s bloody good. See
the auxiliary nurse over there?’ He pointed to a large black woman
with straight hair and shiny skin. She was carrying bedpans over to
the sluice.

Coupland nodded.

‘Her son was in Afghanistan,’
he paused, ‘……didn’t make it.’

The auxiliary turned, saw them
looking over and smiled, a kind hearted smile.

‘She says I need feeding
up.’

Joe nodded again in her
direction, ‘Brings me this from home.’

Coupland realised he hadn’t
brought Joe anything, but then his decision to come had been spur
of the moment. Besides, living on the street had taught Joe the
giver always wanted something in return.

‘I’ve got a proposition for
you,’ Coupland began, helping Joe to his feet, ‘now shut up and
listen.’

They walked slowly into the corridor,
Joe shuffling barefoot beside Coupland. As they neared the fire
exit the auxiliary passed by them on the way to the staff room,
raising her eyebrows knowingly in their direction. ‘I’ll tell
sister ya stretching your legs,’ she told Joe mock-sternly, ‘You
got five minutes.’ She swept her gaze over Coupland, nodding her
approval.

‘You a fren’?’ She asked him
bluntly.

Coupland nodded shyly.

‘Good,’ she concluded before going on
her way, ‘him need a fren’ right now.’

They stood on a balcony overlooking the
car park; Coupland lit a cigarette and passed it to Joe before
lighting one for himself. They stood silently, watching the traffic
below, the ambulances racing in, the relatives’ cars reluctantly
driving out. Expectant fathers sitting on car bonnets wearing their
clothes inside-out.

Coupland told Joe his proposition.

‘Kevin,’ Joe replied,
incredulous. ‘I’m damaged goods.’

His face, raw and stretched,
belied the surprise in his voice, and Coupland was reminded of
Hollywood actresses who spent a little too much time with their
plastic surgeon, leaving them with permanently raised eyebrows, a
trout-like pout. Joe’s surgeon had made him look the opposite; his
eyebrows were level and low, his mouth a thinly drawn line. He
looked as though nothing could ever surprise him again. Yet Joe’s
voice conveyed surprise, and something else too – flattery? – at
Coupland’s suggestion. But he was pragmatic as ever.

‘I’m a depressive, Kevin. Even
when I’m sober I’m unpredictable. I’m not cut out for civilisation
let alone trying to civilise your bloody garden.’

‘Then that makes two of us.’
Coupland laughed. ‘If I’d wanted a poncey designer I’d have
contacted Homes and Garden. Now are you up for it or not?’

Joe hesitated. He’d drawn the
line at moving in, but was tempted by the prospect of casual work.
Neither man spoke of the subtle therapy being offered: A man unable
to look beyond the end of the day engaged in the seasonal cycle of
the garden – an almost subliminal way to get him thinking about
tomorrow.

‘I suppose it means I could pay
for breakfast now and again,’ Joe reasoned,

‘And show the sour faced old
sow in the Dockers’ Bar I’ve cleaned up my act.’

‘It’s a deal then.’

A flash of pain crossed Joe’s
face. Coupland wondered if it was his new smile.

‘Now,’ Coupland began
tentatively, ‘There’s just one more thing I want you to do for
me….’

Joe was right, as ever. The
giver usually had an ulterior motive, and Coupland was no
exception. They were treading the same path. Had common ground
between them.

Joe listened to his friend’s
request, nodding sadly.

Alex stared at her coffee as she forced
herself to accept there could no longer be any doubt about Tracey’s
intentions. She’d had a reason – by God an unenviable one - and
using the rope her father had trussed up his victims with showed
her action was the result of rational planning rather than
emotional meltdown.

Was there some message to be
interpreted in her choice of suicide? Throttling herself with a
ligature she could at any time have stepped away from showed a
determination to move on from this world. Was it also a punishment,
a way to make her final suffering that bit more painful? Did it
atone for taking Kyle with her, for the pain she’d be inflicting
upon Angus? Had she ever managed to rid herself of the guilt she
felt for the young girls who’d fallen victim to her parents’
twisted desires?

Maybe her choice of rope was her way of
identifying with them. A nod to their plight. Could that have been
the reason she’d kept it all those years – the one relic from her
past that she’d carried into her new life?

A small suitcase under the bed in the
Kavanagh’s spare room revealed paintings and sketches Kyle had
produced during his short life, there could be no doubt he’d been
an incredibly gifted child. Most parents would have been proud of
his achievement and skill, yet Tracey saw it as a threat to the
stability she’d created with Angus. A hint at Kyle’s paternity.

It was unnerving, Alex thought, how
Tracey had unwittingly become the focal point in so many men’s
lives: Her father, her brother, her husband, her son. Yet all she
could remember when it mattered was the wrong that had been done.
It was hardly surprising, given what she’d been through, that not
even Angus’s love could light up the darkest corners of her soul.
Alex thought about Carl at home with Ben, about the possibility of
extending their family. There would never be a right time, she
conceded, only a belief in the future and the hope that they would
cope with whatever came their way.