The Crime Tsar (32 page)

Carter paused. Shackleton saw his jaw open and set at an odd angle, his tongue pressed against his bottom teeth. When he spoke his voice was a little too high, a little uncertain.

‘I went to the DCI. Old was his name. I'll never forget him,
fortyish, round eyes and a long crew cut. God's chosen own. He took me into one of the interview rooms. Sat me down. I remember I had a bar of chocolate, I offered him a bit. He didn't sneer exactly, he was a genius at never quite doing enough for you to accuse him of anything … but he made me feel as if I was trying to bribe him. I told him about Percy. Told him he couldn't possibly have done it and that there was one more thing, his mother bought all his underwear at British Home Stores. He wore BHS knickers, like girls' knickers. The pants round the child's throat were Y-fronts. From K Mart.'

Carter stopped again. Shackleton gave him another whisky. Carter looked at it but didn't drink. He controlled himself and continued.

‘Old stared at me. I'll never forget those round blank eyes. Like a surprised bird. And that ridiculous lavatory-brush haircut …'

Shackleton smiled.

‘Yes, it's always that or what Jenni calls bouffant with moustache.'

Carter tried to laugh but it didn't come.

‘He said if I wanted to stay a detective constable for the rest of my life I was quite welcome to repeat my story outside that room but if I'd just forget it as it wasn't really evidence, just hearsay, the future could look quite bright. I was a fast-tracker, like you. It wasn't the future looking bright I was worried about, it was the possibility of it turning dark. I wasn't so naïve I didn't know what he meant or that membership of his Lodge wouldn't be useful. I caved in. No contest.

‘I should have spoken up but I didn't. I couldn't. I could have gone to the creeper squad … maybe I should have told his defence … I don't know. I thought I had more to lose than Trevor Percy. I thought maybe I'd feel better talking about it. But I don't. I didn't just kill him, I tortured him and his mother for sixteen years first.' Carter made one last effort to control himself. ‘I had a look at the autopsy report. Undeveloped, non-functioning sexual organs. Bit late then …'

The tears were now running down Carter's face. Shackleton wanted to dismiss this display as self-pity but he couldn't. He put his hand on Carter's shoulder. He had no belief in poetic justice and related Carter's fears to a sort of superstition. Leroy had never haunted him nor any other, lesser, ruthless action he'd taken. Leroy had died before he'd had a chance to kill. It was a form of justice. And Trevor Percy? The world was not a poorer place without him. It was sad but not a tragedy.

‘Geoffrey, come on. Nothing's going to happen to your kid. Everything'll be fine. Young coppers make mistakes. You're sorry, that's enough. There's nothing you can do about it now.'

Shackleton's hand on his shoulder and the brief paternal words undid him. He cried as Shackleton had only ever seen a woman cry. He tried to staunch the flow.

‘Look, you're not the only one who's ashamed of something in the past. But that's where it is. The past. There's no payback – you're carrying your punishment with you.'

So where was his? No, it was just words, verbal bandaging. He didn't believe what he'd just said. Shackleton did what he did. Regret scratched but had never dug deep.

But what would he feel about the destruction of Carter? What if Jenni's plan was to do what had been done to Trevor and Leroy? What was the difference? No, this was too confusing; it blurred the lines of his certainties. Carter was an obstacle to his ambition. Need like his justified any means.

The doorbell rang. Automatically Shackleton looked at his watch. Apologising to Carter he went to the door. The disturbance was enough to make Carter pull himself together.

‘Tom, I'm so sorry. I've lost my cheque-guarantee card. It's in my driving-licence folder and I remember I put it down on the coffee table in the living room. I'm so sorry, may I fetch it?'

Lucy. What on earth was she talking about.

‘Sure. Go through.'

She was suprised to see Carter – she knew him immediately. He was a
Newsnight
pin-up. Polite introductions and pleas to be excused replaced emotion. Shackleton was relieved. Everything was back to normal.

‘Are you all right?'

Lucy, always alive to misery, reached out and touched Carter's arm.

The unexpected tenderness of the gesture completely undermined his self-control. He was sobbing and apologising. He reeked of whisky and beer but to Lucy he was a lost soul. She rocked him as she'd rocked Shackleton and he felt a shaft of jealousy. She was murmuring a litany of comfort and even managed to produce a crumpled tissue from her pocket. Shackleton half expected her to lick it and wipe Carter's face. In a minute she'd given more comfort than
he had in a whole evening. But that was what women did. Especially this woman. He didn't want her to be holding another man. He couldn't bear her giving his affection and gentle reassurance to someone else. Like a child with its mother he couldn't bear to share her. How could this plain, ordinary woman get so far inside him?

What was she doing now? Carter, having pulled himself together, was trying to leave, gathering as much dignity as he could find. Lucy was standing behind him and seemed to be trying to say something.

Shackleton recognised what she was doing and almost laughed with relief. She was making the same faces his mother had made when she collected him after a crucifying children's party.

‘Say goodbye, Tom. Give him a hug, Tom. Be nice, Tom, he's your friend.'

Shackleton was seven again, in short trousers and red bow tie. He walked towards Carter and put his hand out exactly as he had forty-one years before.

‘Bye, Geoffrey. You all right?'

Carter shook his hand, as lost for the right words as Shackleton, but his eyes were swimmingly grateful for the contact. The forgiveness.

‘Yes. Right. Yes.'

And without thinking the handshake became an awkward, heartfelt hug and Lucy was fussing Carter into the Jaguar and telling Gordon, who Shackleton had summoned from the kitchen, to drive carefully. Then they were gone leaving Lucy and Tom waving like fond aunts on the doorstep.

They went into the house. Lucy stood close to Tom in the wide hall as if waiting for her reward. She put her arms round him and kissed him very tenderly, very gently, but he pushed away, holding her shoulders.

‘Not tonight, Lucy, eh?'

Lucy felt foolish. She thought she had misread the signs. She had in a way, but it wasn't indifference that was making him reject her, it was the pain of feeling. Like blood surging into a frozen limb.

She was quick to make it look as if she'd expected no more.

‘Yes. Right. I've got to go anyway. Is everything all right? Jenni's back tomorrow, isn't she?'

She was at the door now, opening it before he could.

‘Shall I see you in the morning?'

Tom looked down at her with that infuriating expression of regret.

‘I don't think so, Lucy.'

She couldn't stop herself.

‘Shall I … see … you again?'

He shook his head, giving her a ‘This is hurting me more than it's hurting you' look.

‘I don't know, Lucy. I really don't know.'

She was now in so far she couldn't go back.

‘Do you want to be with me again?'

He didn't pause.

‘Yes.'

She felt a surge of hope and joy.

‘So what's the problem?'

‘You know I can't make that kind of commitment, Lucy. Neither can you.'

She knew she had to settle for that and went home before the delicate web of her fantasy was completely ripped to pieces.

Tom closed the door behind her. Why had he rejected her? Why did he feel such an urge to hurt her? He wanted her body. Yes. But didn't want the ugliness and implications of the rest of the baggage that went with a ‘relationship'. He was strong and Lucy was the only person who could undermine that strength.

Lucy put the kettle on. When Jenni was home they always had a coffee and a chat at about eleven. Nothing so common as elevenses, of course, a cafetière and organic coffee, perhaps some
biscotti
.

Jenni came into the kitchen. She seemed more hyper than usual, somewhere near an edge. She had been very affectionate towards Lucy since she got back from Vienna and had given her a lovely brooch. Lucy had almost cried but she wasn't sure if it was the brooch or the mess her life was in that had caused the surge of sentiment.

The phone rang. Jenni answered. There was delighted surprise in her voice.

‘Jason … darling.' She winked at Lucy. ‘Oh it's lovely to talk to you … yes, darling boy, but I'm better now … I understand. I know you do, Jason … Of course you can come home. I don't know why you went in the first place … It's all right, Jason. I forgive you, of course I do. Bye … yes, Lucy'll give it a dust and a hoover.' She
looked across at Lucy. ‘Jason's room – you'll spruce it up, won't you?'

Lucy nodded. Tom was back in the impregnable bosom of his family.

‘Whenever you like, Jason. Bye.'

Jenni was triumphant. She didn't need to say anything; that small conversation had put the constellations back in place. She gave Lucy's arm a little squeeze.

Odd. Out of character. Lucy thought she looked like a consumptive heroine with her glittering eyes and flushed skin. She'd be the sort who would still be devastatingly lovely even in the final stages of tuberculosis.

Lucy handed her a cup of coffee.

‘Nice for you Jason's coming home.'

‘Don't you just love it when things work?'

Lucy searched for an arrangement of her face that said rueful.

‘Don't know – I can't remember when anything last did.'

Jenni gave her the silvery bells.

‘Oh, come on, Lucy, things aren't so bad, are they? You've got Gary.'

Lucy thought that was like saying you've got plenty to eat but it's all infected with botulism.

‘Yes, but he seems to have given up. He just doesn't seem the same since he came home from hospital. Sometimes I feel it's all getting too much. I feel so dowdy. I feel life's going past and I'm standing watching it from behind a fence. Do you understand?'

‘Mmm? Sorry … what was that?'

And your husband doesn't want to sleep with me any more, Jenni. ‘Nothing. Wasn't important. Well, I think I've done for the day. See you tomorrow, eh?'

‘Yes. Yes … Oh Lucy.'

Suddenly Lucy had Jenni's full attention. She turned the full candle-power of her eyes on Lucy and despite herself Lucy was again struck by her beauty. What would she do without it? When would she? At fifty? Later? Jenni wouldn't let her looks go any more than she released anything that belonged to her. Like her husband, her most valuable possession.

‘Would you mind doing a big clean while Tom and I are away? You remember we're going to Barcelona for a few days – it's our
wedding anniversary. Too romantic. A full day if you could. The living room is beginning to look a bit dingy – I just need you to have everything out and give the place a good going over. All right with you?'

The extra money would be welcome.

‘Certainly. Yes.'

‘And Lucy … I, I want to apologise.'

Lucy had never heard Jenni say the A word. She'd often wished she had but now she didn't know what it was for. Not knowing what to say she said nothing.

Jenni was gratified by the look on her face. It acknowledged the rarity of the moment.

‘I haven't treated you very well lately. And I'm sorry. You're a loyal friend and I've neglected you. But I want to take you out for a huge shop and maybe some pampering to make it up to you. What do you say? My treat, of course.'

I say you're a patronising, condescending cow and you obviously want something.

‘That'd be really lovely, Jenni. I'd love to.'

Jenni was pleased. She had excised Eleri and restored Lucy. It hadn't been difficult to say sorry and Lucy seemed so grateful. Life was taking on a pleasing symmetry again.

Lucy, feeling herself dismissed, was at the front door, her hand on the catch. She opened it as Tom's car pulled up. No, she screamed with no sound, no movement. No! You shouldn't be home. You shouldn't be getting out of that car looking so handsome, smiling at me like a stranger. Worse, smiling at me like the cleaning lady. Smiling.

‘Morning, Tom. Are you well?'

‘Fine, thanks, Lucy. You? And Gary?'

He looked at her and was ambushed by a need to protect her. She looked so threatened, so exposed in the glare of his wife's perfection. She was carrying her rubber gloves and a pile of dusters for washing. It would be so much easier if she wasn't there.

He closed the door. When he got the Met he and Jenni would move. Jenni would insist on it – there may be less money to lavish on her pleasures at London prices but her pleasures would be closer, she would be inside them. They'd move away from Lucy. And Gary. And the discomfort of emotion. And love. Where had that come from? It
had grown, like buddleia in the cracks of prison walls. Yes, they'd go away. It would be sad, the end of an era, but better for everyone in the end.

‘What are you doing home?'

Jenni's question was not accusatory. That made a change.

‘My neck's playing me up and the Home Office meeting finished early so … I've got nothing much on this afternoon. Just a discipline starting in the morning …'

‘Good. I wanted to tell you – I don't think Geoffrey is going to be a problem.'

‘Geoffrey who?' He saw the flash of irritation too late.

‘Geoffrey fucking Carter. Who did you think I meant? Geoffrey Boycott? Geoffrey Howe?'

His mouth poured oil.