In Cold Daylight (4 page)

I didn’t want to be with my father. I didn’t want to be in London. There were too many memories here for me. This was where Alison was buried and this was where I had experienced my mental breakdown after her death.

‘I don’t see why not. I’m very busy, Adam.’

‘So am I,’ I retorted, and I was. Jack was relying on me to get to the truth. When I had needed a friend he had been there. I wasn’t going to let him down.

Simon said, ‘At least have a drink. After all we haven’t seen each other for years.’

I stared at him for a moment wondering what had brought about this volte face. Simon, like father, had been unsympathetic over my breakdown. As far as they had been concerned I had shamed the family name. Curiosity got the better of me and I said, ‘OK.’

We found a wine bar around the corner from the hospital in Belvedere Road. It was already fairly crowded with people getting into the Christmas spirit. There was little chance that Faye would come here; the office and flat were in Convent Garden. If Father died I would have to tell her about him and Simon. Just one more secret I had kept from her and one more lie. As far as Faye was concerned I had no family. And I had never breathed a word to her about Alison or my breakdown. From the beginning of our relationship I had known that Faye wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t until now though that I admitted it to myself. I felt the stirrings of unease where my feelings for Faye were concerned.

Over recent months we had drifted apart. I told myself it was because of her working in London and the demands of her new job, but I knew it had nothing to do with that.

Simon returned from the bar with a bottle of wine and a coke. I took the coke. We found a table in a dark corner near the gents’ toilet as more people came in shaking out umbrellas and pulling off raincoats.

‘You realise he might not be able to return home,’ I said. ‘He’ll probably have to go into a nursing home.’ And how he would hate that, I thought. He’d always despised illness of any kind seeing it as weakness and often self-inflicted.

‘That will cost a bloody fortune,’ grumbled Simon. He poured himself a large glass of red wine and drank almost half of it in one go.

‘You can sell the house. It should fetch quite a price.’

‘You haven’t seen it. It’s falling to pieces.’

And I didn’t want to see it, ever.

Simon sniffed. ‘I suppose you’ll leave all that to me to arrange?’

His eyes bored into mine. If he was trying to intimidate me then he was failing. I remained silent. I guessed this was the purpose behind Simon’s invitation. He wanted to dump all this on me. After a moment Simon was forced to continue.

‘Harriet will have to see to it. She’s got plenty of time now the children are at boarding school.’

I had scored a minor victory. ‘How is Harriet?’

I had vague recollections of a tall, slim girl with an oval face, perfect complexion and long straight blonde hair. I had no recollections of her personality.

Simon helped himself to another large glass of wine. ‘She’s all right.’

The conversation ground to a halt. I didn’t know what to say to him. We were like strangers.

What was I doing here wasting time? Into my mind flashed those seven letters SIEDNGO.

What other words could I get out of them apart from GOD and DIES? SIGN? SIGNED? Why had Jack signed it 4th July 1994? That must have some significance. What had happened on that date? Perhaps I should look it up in an almanac or on the Internet?

Someone laughed uproariously at a nearby table startling me out of my reverie. I saw Simon’s disapproval. I guessed this wasn’t his sort of place.

‘Are you still involved in research?’ I asked. I knew he was but if I could keep him talking about himself it wouldn’t give him time to pry into my affairs.

‘Don’t you ever read the newspapers?’

‘Not unless I have to.’ I said evasively, taking a swig of my coke.

‘We’re working on a number of projects: treatments for osteoporosis, obesity and cancer.

That’s why I can’t spare the time up here, Adam.

It’s a race against the clock to develop the vaccine or drug before anyone else does and before the money runs out.’

I thought of that charity cycle ride photograph and Rosie’s words. Three of the fire fighters in the photograph had died of cancer.

‘You really think you can come up with something to help cure cancer?’ I asked.

‘Cure? No. Treat, yes, or perhaps a vaccine for certain types. And that’s the trouble there are so many different forms of cancer and so many different causes. It’s not just down to genetics; the environment is to blame for many cancers.’

‘How?’

‘Exposure to synthetic chemicals, natural toxins, industrial processes, drugs, and viruses not to mention sunlight. Twenty to thirty percent of all cancers are caused by occupational exposure.’

Could those fire fighters have been exposed to something during the course of their jobs? Is that why they had contracted cancer? Or was it a matter of bad luck.

‘What are the statistics for contracting cancer?’

‘One in three.’

That high! Out of eight men on that bicycle three had contracted cancer, slightly higher than Simon’s statistics but not so unusual.

‘There’s money in research, Adam. You should have finished your degree. Nothing was ever proven over Alison’s death.’

I felt myself tense. I had wondered how long it would take Simon to remind me of my failure.

Perhaps that was why I hadn’t wanted to come here. I knew it was one of the reasons I’d cut myself off from my family. Alison’s death had been an accident I told myself. She had fallen from that window. Only trouble was I couldn’t remember a thing about it. The first I could recall was sitting in a police interview room.

Simon said, ‘You shouldn’t have let it ruin your career.’

‘I didn’t,’ I replied tersely.

‘You call painting a career?’ Simon said, with barely disguised contempt.

I stiffened. His tone reminded me of Father’s taunts to Mother over a hobby that had given her so much pleasure, and for which she’d had a talent. As far as my father was concerned art was futile. Simon clearly was of the same opinion even though he’d married an art historian.

‘How did you know?’ I asked. I hadn’t told him or Father.

Suddenly Simon looked ill at ease. ‘Harriet saw something about you in one of her art magazines,’ he said, airily. ‘Do you make any money out of it?’

‘We get by.’

‘We?’

‘I’m married.’

Simon arched his eyebrows but I was spared his cryptic remark by the arrival of our meal.

After the waiter had left us I asked a question that had been bugging me almost since he had called me. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Your number was in Father’s book?’ he said a shade too quickly.

‘It couldn’t have been. Father doesn’t have it.’

‘Then you must have given it to me at some time,’ Simon dismissed impatiently.

‘Hardly.’

‘Does it matter?’ Simon said in exasperation. I held his stare, and I could see apprehension.

‘Look, I got my secretary to track you down. She must have found your number in the telephone book, or through directory enquiries. Harriet said the article mentioned you were living on the coast, in Portsmouth, so it wasn’t that difficult to run you to earth. I thought you ought to know about Father even though you and he didn’t hit it off.’

I let it go. We were ex-directory, so why had he lied and so obviously? Maybe he didn’t care?

Maybe he thought his younger brother dull and stupid? But then, I thought, I was being paranoid and overly suspicious. Jack’s death and the subsequent events were making me see hidden motives where there was none.

I gazed across the restaurant and with a shock found myself staring straight into the eyes of the young motorbike rider whom I’d seen on the seafront yesterday. This time there was no mistaking it, he was looking right at me and it wasn’t with affection. I held his intense and hostile glare as best I could. He didn’t flinch or glance away. He was dressed in the same red and black leathers as yesterday, his lean face was unshaven. I had been right the first time: there
was
something familiar about him but it eluded me. Why was he so interested in me? Why didn’t he approach me? He must have followed me here. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Did he have something to do with Jack’s death? Only one way to find out.

I scraped back my chair. Simon looked up at me in surprise. ‘Gents,’ I said, but the people at the table in front of us decided to leave at the same time blocking my path and when it was clear the young man had gone. I crossed to the toilet scanning the bar and the restaurant but there was no sign of him and neither was he inside the gents.

‘I must be going,’ I said abruptly on my return.

Perhaps I could catch up with him outside.

Simon shrugged. He seemed to have lost interest in me, probably because he could see that I wasn’t going to play his game. He said, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how he is.’

It was my turn to shrug. I stepped outside and peered down the street. There was no motorbike and no young man. Damn!

I turned up Chicheley Street towards the river my mind full of questions. It had stopped raining.

I came out by Waterloo Pier; behind me the lights glowed on the London Eye. The grinding of the London traffic mingled with the screeching of the trains as they shunted across the bridge from Waterloo to Charing Cross station. I turned left towards Westminster Bridge with the River Thames on my right. A boat hooted, someone laughed and I could hear a flute playing, a busker by the bridge I guessed.

The Thames made me think of the postcard Jack had sent me. I pulled it out of my pocket.

The picture was one of the most famous in the world and one of my favourites. Turner had captured the warship,
Temeraire
, as it was being towed up the Thames to be broken up. She had fought so bravely at the Battle of Trafalgar and in Turner’s picture she looks naked without her sails, suffering the humiliations of being shepherded up the river by a squat tug belching orange from its thin dark funnel. Had Jack meant anything by sending me this particular postcard or was it one he just happened to buy? Until I cracked that code I wouldn’t know.

I turned my thoughts to the motorbike rider.

Had
he
broken into Jack’s house? Had Jody Piers’

landlady seen him? Jody hadn’t called me so I guessed not. I felt a stab of disappointment before I told myself not to be so stupid. I had met her once. I knew nothing about her. I was married.

Maybe I should report the motorbike rider to the police? Maybe I should tell Steve Langton about Jack’s fears? Questions, questions and I should be in Portsmouth finding the answers not here staring over the murky waters of the Thames towards to the illuminated Houses of Parliament opposite.

I threw a couple of quid into the busker’s cap, got a nod of thanks from the man and the lift of an eye from the dog and headed back home.

When I arrived home I found that Rosie had left a message on my answer machine asking me to call round urgently. I glanced at the clock. It was too late to visit her now. I would have to wait until the morning. I wondered if she’d discovered more about Stella Hardway, the mysterious woman that Jack was supposed to be having an affair with. I tried to get her name from the letters on the postcard but even if I included all of them and not just the letters that Jack had underlined, I was still missing a ‘W’.

As I rode down to Rosie’s the next morning I checked my mirrors for any sign of the mysterious motorbike rider. There was none. I vowed that next time I wouldn’t let him get away.

I kicked down the stand and glanced at Rosie’s neighbour’s house. There was no sign of life behind the windows. I hesitated over knocking, then thought what the heck! There was no answer. I climbed over the small dividing wall and rang Rosie’s bell.

Her face was tired and drawn as she let me in.

I followed her through to the lounge.

‘I had a telephone call from the hospital yesterday afternoon,’ she said, without preamble.

‘Jack had cancer.’

I felt as though someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over me. Simon’s words returned to me – the odds of contracting cancer were one in three. There were eight men on that bicycle photograph and four of them had contracted cancer. The odds had just increased. But how many were on the watch? Fourteen? Twelve?

Tears filled her dark eyes. ‘Jack had an appointment to see the consultant. His secretary telephoned me to ask why he hadn’t kept it.’

I wrestled with this news. Why hadn’t Jack told me? Why hadn’t he told his wife? It could explain Jack’s last message to me, but not why he thought he was being followed, or the missing items.

‘What kind of cancer?’ If it was brain cancer then maybe that had caused Jack to have delusions.

‘Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I called our GP

and she said that Jack came to her six months ago with a lump on his neck. She referred him to a consultant who did a biopsy, X Ray and CT

scan. Jack paid privately. This must have been why he was so withdrawn and nervy. He didn’t want me to know. He didn’t want me to worry.

Oh, the silly man. What he must have gone through. It makes me so angry that he felt he couldn’t confide in me.’

The anguish in her eyes tore at my heart.

She said, ‘I think Stella Hardway must be someone at the hospital.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘No.’

I could see that she didn’t want to, but I could.

She began to cry. I went swiftly to her and took her in my arms. I felt a surge of anger with Jack for shutting her out of an important part of his life, as well as betrayed that Jack had chosen not to confide in me either.

‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ She looked up at me with her tear-stained face.

I couldn’t answer her, not yet. Maybe one day soon I might be able to.

Simon had said that occupational exposure counted for many cancers. Was that the connection? Had Jack and his colleagues been exposed to something that could have given them cancer? I felt a frisson of excitement run through me. I knew I was on the right track.