Knife Edge (23 page)

'Hello, Jude.'

When they told me I had a visitor, I half hoped it'd be Mum. But whilst part of me was glad to see her, another stronger part of me really wished she hadn't come. By visiting me, her card would be marked. From now on, if anything happened within a two-hundred-kilometre-odd radius which had even the slightest sniff of the
L.M.
, the cops would go knocking on Mum's door. I'd warned her of that when I phoned her but she said it didn't matter.

Maybe she didn't understand? Or maybe she just didn't care? I looked around the interview room, more to delay the moment of looking directly at my mum than for any other reason. This was my second interview room today. I studied all four corners of the room until there was nothing left to study. Until I had no choice but to turn and face my mum. I could handle most things, but not the pain in Mum's eyes as she looked at me. Pain and that look of
déjà vu.
How many times had she been in this position before?

'How are you? They treating you OK?'

'Fine, Mum. I'm fine.'

I glanced round. Detective Zork stood by the door, ear-wigging every word. Nosy git!

'Can I bring you anything?'

'No, Mum.'

'Can I do anything for you?'

'No, Mum.'

'What about a lawyer? Have you got one yet?'

'I'm going to get one,' I told her with a forced smile.

Mum glanced down at the table between us. When she looked up again, there was a sheen to her eyes. I looked away from her tears. They couldn't save me now.

'That girl . . . Cara Imega . . . did you know her?'

I shrugged before lowering my voice. 'Yes, Mum. I knew her.'

'Did you do the things they're saying you did?'

How to answer that?

What things are they saying I did?

Why 'things' – plural?

What are they saying?

Who are 'they'?

'Mum, I didn't kill anyone.' I looked Mum straight in the eyes as I said that. Here was the one and only person in the world who kept a corner of her mind open to the fact that I might actually be innocent. At least she'd asked me. No one else had done that. So how could I snuff out the last bit of hope she had? 'I didn't do it, Mum.'

I turned to look at the copper by the door. He regarded me with a mocking half-smile. The look on his face said he'd heard it all before. If there'd been just the two of us in the room, I wouldn't've looked away first. But I had more important things on my mind. Mum sighed wearily as I turned back to her. She tried to smile at me but all it did was twist her mouth as she tried not to cry.

'It's OK, Mum.'

'I don't know what to do.' Mum's voice wavered as she spoke. 'I have to get you out of here.'

'Mum, you don't have to worry. I've got it covered,' I lied. 'A friend of mine is going to get me a lawyer. They'll never be able to convict me 'cause I didn't do it.'

'Well, why do they think you did?'

'I don't know.' I shook my head. 'They won't tell me anything, Mum. They keep saying they've got a mountain of evidence against me but they won't say what it is.'

Mum leaned forward to take both of my hands in hers. Her palm were cool and dry and rough all at the same time. I closed my hands around hers.

'No touching,' said Zork immediately. He moved forward to examine both of our hands, to make sure Mum hadn't slipped something to me or vice versa. I glared at him as he backed off to lean against the wall by the door.

'I'll find out exactly what they think they have against you,' said Mum.

'How?'

'Never you mind. I'll do it though. D'you trust me?'

'Yes, I do.' I smiled.

'Time's up,' Zork piped up. 'Back to your cell now, McGregor.'

Wasn't he fed up with saying that?

I stood up. 'Don't worry, Mum. I won't go down for this. I didn't do it.'

Mum burst into tears. She quickly wiped her eyes and tried to stop herself from sobbing but it did no good. I tried to get back to her, to comfort her in some way but Zork took my arm and dragged at me, trying to dislocate my shoulder by the feel of it. I tried for one last smile at Mum before I turned and allowed myself to be pulled out of the room. Only then did my smile disappear as if it'd never been.

Sorry, Mum.

But what else could I say? What else could I do? I need you and your belief in the good in me. Sometimes, I dream of that night and it's almost like I'm watching another person in that room with Cara. Like I'm standing back, frozen silent, frozen still, and all I can do is stare. At first I watch Cara, cowering. Afraid. And I tell myself not to look at her. It takes every gram of strength I have to look away. But my gaze always moves to the person hitting her. That person is always me. And then it's like I'm not watching any more, but I've snapped back into my own body. And I'm no longer an observer, I'm the perpetrator. Try as I might, I can't stop hitting out. Lashing out. Smashing out. But the person I'm hammering is no longer Cara. It's me.

Mum, it's funny, but I can't stop thinking of one of the stories you told me and Lynette and Callum many lifetimes ago. A story about a man who goes to hell and who's told by the Devil that there's only one way out. One chance. Just one. Well, Mum, you're my one and only chance. You see, I'll never get out of hell if there's not even you left to pray for me.

I sat down on the hard bench in the reception area of the police station, ignoring the contemptuous looks being thrown in my direction by the desk sergeant. Asking to see Jude was enough to condemn me in his eyes. Guilt by association. I looked down at the carpet, I studied the posters on the wall, I watched a spider scurry across the ceiling until it reached its web in one corner of the room. My gaze went everywhere – except towards the desk sergeant. I watched the people coming in and out of the station. A woman came in crying, holding her young son's hand as she wiped the tears away before approaching the sergeant. A man came in holding a bloody hankie to a gash on his forehead. An elderly Nought woman strode in and went straight up to the sergeant, banging her hand down before she'd even said a word to make sure she had the sergeant's full attention. And all the time I sat and watched but my thoughts were elsewhere. What was Jude saying to Meggie in there? Was he confessing all? Chance would be a fine thing. I had no doubt that Jude would say anything, do anything, be anything in his efforts to satisfy his insatiable hunger for revenge against all Crosses. Could he have killed Cara Imega? I didn't doubt that he was capable of it for a second. He'd shot my sister and he was more than happy to try and kill me.

And maybe if I'd let Minerva tell the police who'd really shot her, Cara Imega would be alive today. Maybe. I didn't like the direction my thoughts were taking me, so I forced myself to let them go and think of something else. I so wanted to get home and hold my daughter.

At last Meggie came out. I stood up with a smile, which faded at the expression on Meggie's face.

'Sephy, I need your help,' she began with obvious trepidation.

'Why? What's the matter?'

'I need to find out what evidence they think they have against Jude.'

I began to shake my head. 'The police are hardly likely to tell me . . .'

'But you know people. Couldn't you find out? I'm sorry to do this but I don't know who else to ask,' said Meggie.

'But why? Does Jude reckon he's being framed?'

Meggie shook her head. 'It's not so much that. Jude says he didn't do it.'

'And you believe him?' I asked.

'I believe in him,' said Meggie.

Which didn't answer my question. We left the police station and headed along the road to the bus stop in silence. Jude was vicious and vindictive, but Meggie couldn't or wouldn't see that.

'D'you think Jude killed Cara Imega?' I tried again.

'He swears he didn't do it. . .'

'And you believe him?' I couldn't help asking.

Meggie shook her head, looking me straight in the eye. 'He wouldn't lie to me.'

I said nothing.

'Will you help me? Please,' Meggie asked.

I sighed. 'I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything.'

'You'll find out the truth,' Meggie said, every word dripping with hope. 'I know you will.'

As I looked at her I couldn't help wondering whose truth she was after. Jude's, mine or her own?

'Is your name Jude Alexander McGregor?'

'Yes.'

'What is your address?'

'I don't have a fixed address at the moment.'

'Where do you currently reside?'

'Room fourteen, Cartman Hotel in Bridgeport.'

'It is charged that on the night of the seventeenth of July you did intentionally and ultimately cause the death of Cara Imega. You are therefore charged with the murder of Cara Imega. Do you understand these charges as they have been read out to you?'

I nodded.

'Could you speak up for the court audio tape please?' ordered the magistrate.

Suppressing the powerful urge to tell him just where he could stick the court audio tape, I said, 'Yes, I understand the charges.'

'Your Honour, at this time my client would like to request bail,' my sad-excuse-for-a-lawyer piped up.

'Request for bail denied,' the magistrate declared immediately. 'Jude McGregor, you are remanded in custody until the date of your court case. Next!'

I sat in Anada's, the famous seafood restaurant, waiting. I'd never been in this one before. It wasn't exactly the sort of place I could afford. The walls were an in-your-face sunshine yellow and the carpet on the floor was a deep sea-blue. It was the sort of restaurant where they had tablecloths on the tables and shining silver cutlery. And draped across the ceiling were fishing nets full of shells and starfish and seaweed and other stuff from the sea. The strange thing was, it actually worked. It stopped the place from being entirely too pretentious. I studied the menu as I waited for my sister Minerva to arrive. I'd called her to ask for a meeting and to my surprise she'd jumped at the chance, suggesting this restaurant as a meeting place.

I needed her help. And I wasn't sure if she'd be prepared to give it, so I was going to have to resort to a bit of subterfuge. But the thought of deceiving my sister didn't sit easily with my conscience. So I forced myself to focus on the menu and not on our forthcoming meeting. Desserts were always my favourite part of any menu so I looked at them first. With a start, I noticed they had something called Blanker's Delight.
A light-as-air white chocolate mousse flavoured with brandy and served with cream or crème fraîche.
Charming! I looked around the restaurant. No Noughts eating and only one serving. I wondered how he felt when someone ordered a Blanker's Delight?

Disenchanted, my gaze slid back to the main courses. Big mistake. The whole menu was beautifully presented and had some delicious-sounding dishes on it. But not a single one had the price next to it. After a quick glance around, I picked up my bag and surreptitiously opened my purse. I wondered what my meagre funds would buy me in this place. Maybe half an after-dinner mint – if I was lucky. I could try putting it on plastic but I wasn't sure if the credit card companies would authorize yet more spending on my part. I decided to plead a full stomach and just stick to a glass of sparkling mineral water. Perhaps if I told them to hold the ice and not bother with a slice of lemon or lime then I might just be able to pay for it. This restaurant had been my sister's idea. I might've guessed she'd pick a place where you needed a mortgage to pay for the meal.

'Hello, Sephy. How're you?'

I glanced up, then sprang to my feet. 'Hello, Minerva. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.'

Minerva shrugged. 'Of course I'd meet you. What else did you think I'd do?' No hug. No kiss. We both sat down. 'So how've you been? And how's Callie Rose?'

'Rose is doing fine,' I replied. 'She's with Meggie at the moment.'

'Would Meggie mind if I came round to see Callie Rose some time?'

'Of course she wouldn't.' What a strange question.

'Would you mind?' Minerva asked me.

'No. Why would I?'

Minerva shrugged again, her expression noncommittal. She had some bizarre notions and no mistake. What did she think I'd do? Take one look at her and kick her down the street? Mind you, Rose and I had been living with Meggie for a while now. Strange that Minerva wanted to start visiting us. She studied me critically, her lips slightly pursed.

'Have you lost weight, Sephy?'

'Some.'

Minerva regarded me for a few moments more, then waved at a waiter, who was across the restaurant one second and beside our table the next. He must've hitched a ride on a bolt of lightning to get to us so quickly. It wasn't the Nought waiter; he'd disappeared into the kitchen.

'D'you mind if I order for you?' Minerva asked.

'Well, actually, I was only going to have a mineral water,' I began.

'Nonsense.' Minerva turned to the waiter. 'Can we have the smoked haddock and monkfish chowder to start please. No saffron in mine. And we'll both have the swordfish steaks.'

'Of course. And if I may say so, an excellent choice,' smarmed the waiter.

I mean, could he be any more obsequious? I'd never seen such oily toadying. Just as he was about to slime off, I asked him, 'Don't you think it's rather insulting to have something called Blanker's Delight on the menu?'

The waiter frowned. 'The chef sets the menu.'

'That doesn't make it right,' I replied.

'Blanker's Delight is a dessert that's been served for centuries.'

'Then it's about time its name was changed, don't you think?' I said evenly.

'Er . . . I'll see to your order,' said the waiter, keen to avoid any kind of confrontation at all costs.

'Was that necessary?' Minerva said. 'My newspaper brings lots of clients to this restaurant. My editor won't thank me if we upset them.'

'How can a junior reporter afford this place?' I frowned.

'I work for the
Daily Shouter –
remember?' Minerva smiled, a trace of pride in her voice. 'And I may be only a junior reporter but I'm working my way up.'

'So the job is working out then?'

'So far.' Minerva looked me straight in the eye. 'Sephy, I'm ambitious. Very ambitious.'

'Fair enough.' I smiled at her. Her gaze fell away from mine. 'So have I made trouble for you then by complaining about the name of the pudding?'

'I doubt it. And even if you have – I'm a survivor,' said my sister.

'Don't you think this place should drag itself into the twenty-first century like the rest of us? Why don't you write about that?'

'My editor wouldn't publish it,' said Minerva calmly. 'It's not news.'

Which I could've guessed. The status quo is never news, only challenges to it.

'Besides, you have to be patient, Sephy. No one can change things overnight – not even you.'

'But it's not overnight, is it?' I argued. 'We've had decades,
centuries,
to change people's attitudes but things are getting worse, not better. D'you know I went shopping in town with Rose two days ago and three different people asked me whose child she was? And when I said mine, one man actually had the cheek to tell me it would've been better if I'd put Rose up for adoption with a blanker family – his words, not mine.'

'So what did you say to him?' Minerva asked.

'If I repeat it, they'll chuck us out of this restaurant,' I said.

Minerva laughed. 'Good for you. Stand your ground. But the ones who speak the loudest don't necessarily speak for the majority.'

'No? Most people would rather cross the street than get involved. This man stood in my way, shouting verbal abuse at me and not one person helped out. They all walked around us whilst that bastard stood there telling me I should've had an abortion or never gone with a Nought in the first place. He actually told me Rose would be better off dead.'

'But you told him where to go, didn't you?'

I sighed, trying to calm down. "Course I did. And he's not even the one who really upset me. It was all the ones who walked past, or crossed the street and let it happen. They're the ones I'm angry with.'

'Don't give them another thought,' said Minerva. 'They're not worth losing sleep over.'

'Easy for you to say.' I was going to argue further but sighed and let it go. I didn't want to ruin Minerva's lunch with my woes.

Minerva said, 'I hope you don't mind me ordering for you. All the food is good here but I can recommend the soup and swordfish I ordered.'

'It sounds fine,' I said, 'but I really was just going to have some water.'

'The bill gets put on my company's credit card so we can both enjoy ourselves,' said Minerva. 'And if the paper cuts up rough, I'll pay for it out of my own pocket.'

'The
Daily Shouter
pays you well then?' I asked, surprised.

'Are you kidding? Hungry junior reporters are ten a penny,' Minerva frowned. 'If I didn't get my allowance from Dad each month, I don't know how I'd manage.'

A sudden flare of pain shot through me. It wasn't so much the money, although that would've been wonderful, but the fact that Dad could so easily forget he had two daughters, not one. In spite of everything that'd happened, all the things that we'd both said and done, a part of me still missed my dad. I'd be lying if I said otherwise.

'So Dad's still looking after you, is he?'

Minerva's eyes widened. 'Oh Sephy, I'm sorry. I didn't think.'

I shrugged. 'Don't worry about it. If lunch is on you, then I'll enjoy myself.'

I sat back in the chair, trying to relax.

'So have you heard about Jude McGregor being arrested?' asked Minerva, smoothing her napkin down on her lap.

'Of course. I haven't just arrived from the South Pole, you know.' Funny, but Jude was just who I wanted to talk about as well. Quite a coincidence.

'So how d'you feel about that?' Minerva asked.

'About Jude?'

'Yeah.'

'Are you interviewing me, Minerva?'

Minerva suddenly found the tablecloth fascinating. She couldn't tear her eyes away from it.

'You are, aren't you?' I persisted. 'Is that why you agreed to meet me for lunch?'

'It wasn't the only reason,' she told me.

'But it was high up on the list, wasn't it?'

'It's my job, Sephy.'

'To use your own sister to get a story?'

'It's not like that,' Minerva protested.

'Then what is it like?'

'I need your help, Sephy.'

I sat back, waiting for Minerva to grow enough of a backbone to get to the point.

'I've got something to ask you and I just want you to hear me out – OK?' said Minerva.

I didn't reply. The flutterings in my stomach were beginning to make me feel nauseous. That in itself was enough to warn me that Minerva was about to hit me with something that I wasn't going to like. But before she could continue, a man wearing an apron and a spotless white T-shirt was fast approaching our table – and he had a face like thunder.

'You are the woman who complained about my menu?' he asked me directly.

'Mr Sewell, my sister didn't complain about your menu as such.' Minerva tried to soothe his ruffled feathers. 'She agrees with me that your cooking is second to none.'

I stared at Idris Sewell. I had no idea he was the head chef of this place. He was a famous chef who was on the TV regularly. He was a lot taller in real life than he appeared on the box. And at this moment, a lot more menacing.

'You criticized my menu,' he challenged me, ignoring my sister completely.

I took a deep breath. 'I just think it's a shame you have something called Blanker's Delight on the menu.'

'The recipe for Blanker's Delight was handed to me by my grandmother, who got it from her mother before her,' Idris informed me. 'So what is wrong with it?'

'I'm sure it tastes wonderful,' Minerva interjected.

'Yes, but its name is insulting,' I said, warming to my theme.

'Sephy!' Minerva pleaded.

I shrugged. 'He asked for my opinion so that's what he's getting.'

And I must admit that part of me was enjoying the confrontation with the chef. I wanted to shout at him and everyone else in the restaurant. I wanted to shout at the whole world for the casual way they condemned me and dismissed my daughter.

'It's just a name,' Idris Sewell told me with belligerence. 'There are nursery rhymes and songs and ads on the telly that all feature blankers. What's wrong with that?'

'They may feature "blankers" but they don't use that word,' I replied coldly. 'They're Noughts, not blankers.'

'If you have a dessert named after you, you ought to be glad. We've had milk-white noughts in here who didn't complain,' said Idris stonily. 'And if they didn't complain, then why should you?'

'Because I can't speak for anyone but myself and I find it offensive.'

'Perhaps you'd like to dine elsewhere if my menu offends you,' Idris suggested.

I looked around. Most people were listening if not watching. 'You don't get rid of me that easily,' I told him. 'I'm here to eat, if you don't mind serving someone whose daughter is half-Nought, half-Cross.'

'I don't care if your daughter is a duck, as long as you pay the bill at the end of the meal,' said Idris. 'But I don't appreciate having my food disrespected.'

'I'm not disrespecting your food, just your menu.'

But the chef was already stomping back to the kitchen.

'Oh dear,' sighed Minerva. 'He'll probably curdle his béarnaise sauce or something now and it'll be all your fault.' But the last was said with an amused smile.

'Are you sorry you invited me here?' I asked.

'No. This has been the most entertaining lunch I've had in a long while.'

'It may be just entertainment to you, Minerva, but it's my life. I can't walk away from it – and neither can my daughter.'

'Of course.' Minerva's smile faded. 'I didn't mean to be insensitive.'

Let it slide . . . I shrugged to imply that it was OK.

'D'you think the chef is going to spit in our soup?' I teased to ease the mood.

Minerva laughed. 'No way. It'd be beneath his dignity. Besides,' she leaned in closer, 'I'll make sure it's known that I work for the
Daily Shouter.
He won't risk a bad write-up.'

The power of the press.

'Is working for the
Daily Shouter
all you thought it would be?'

'It's better. I've still got a couple of months left of my six months' probation. But at least they're giving me a chance,' Minerva replied carefully.