TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) (24 page)

I turn side-on to
face him. “I’m sure he does, Jake.”

“It’s as if he’s
seeing me for the first time. And the way he looks at you - watching how you
move and how the words leave your mouth. Crazy shit like that.” He turns away,
taking a moment to calm down.

“Jake. You know what
happened with Elise, right?”

He nods. “It was my
car!”

“I know, that
couldn’t be helped.”

“I’m not bothered
about that. Anyway, it was insured for more than it was worth. I can’t believe
he got out alive. It was scrapped.”

“He was very lucky,
thank God.” I hold my hand to my chest to stress the point. “Everyone thinks he
bounced back, but it hit him hard. Not just because of the connection they he
had as children, but because of what he almost lost: his life. It’s business as
usual, and I understand that, but he’s still finding his way back. We both
are.”

I feel his arm around
my shoulder and a tight one-handed squeeze “I know, Beth. I get it now.”

“I think he’ll feel
so much better once he’s able to put this Hong Kong business behind him and we
can stretch out on a beach and watch the world go by.”

He’s shaking his head
and laughing. “And you seriously think he’ll be able to do that, do you?”

“I can live in hope.”
I smile broadly.

“I wish you nothing
but the best. You know that, right? But don’t be surprised if you have to put
your beach party on hold.”

“Why would we do
that?”

“Just a hunch.”

“What kind of hunch?”

“The kind of hunch
that tells me someone is trying to pull the wool over our eyes.” He reaches
into his pocket and pulls out a small pen drive. “See this? On it are two sets
of accounts; one set we’re privy to, and the other the Kowloon plant keeps
under wraps. Take one from the other and you’re left with a whole lot of shit
to explain.”

I’m aghast. “Does
Ayden know?”

“I think he suspects
something. Why the hell would he take a trip out there today and leave me to
play minder? He must have a good reason.”

I smile knowingly.
“Is that where you were this morning? Ayden said you weren’t at the meeting.”

“Yeah, I paid a guy
to get the information out so we’d have proof. Maybe catch these bastards in
the act before they embezzle any more money from ASMI.” He slips the pen drive
back into his pocket.

“Are you sure it’s
safe in your pocket? What if you lose it?” I ask.

“I won’t. Besides
I’ve already uploaded it to my laptop. This was for Ayd.”

I rub my hand the
length of his bicep. “You’re a good friend Jake. Ayden’s lucky to have you
looking out for him.”

“Sure. Just doing my
job,” he murmurs.

“Even so. You go the
extra mile for him.”

“What else would I
do; we’re like brothers, right?” He means every word.

“Yes. You are.” All I
can do is nod in agreement.

If he only knew …

“That’s why I can’t
get my head around what’s going on with him. He looks at me like I’m an
employee he just hired this morning.”

I feel for him. “The
crash was so traumatic, Jake, especially after what happened to me. It’s been
rough for him. Give him time to come around.” I kiss his cheek.

His face breaks out
into a wide smile. “You’re right. Brains and beauty. You have it all, Beth.”

I roll my eyes and
fall back onto the seat. “I don’t know about that.”

Pacific Place nestles
in the southern part of the island between polished towers, stretching into the
clear blue sky like metallic stalactites. It offers one of those shopping
experiences you read about but never get to experience. Yet, here I am with a
handsome escort and a Visa card with no limit!

He seems to know
where we’re going and I’m happy to follow. We make our way up to level three,
passing by gleaming shop fronts and pillars that seem to stretch up to the very
top of the building. All I can do is marvel at the opulence of it all. We come
to a double-fronted boutique and he stops. Reaching out, he beckons me inside.
It’s Chanel.

First I’m drawn to
the make-up; a beautifully presented assistant applies colours to my hand then
wipes them off with a moist tissue. I move on to the perfume, then the bags,
then the hats, all the time checking to see if Jake is still around. There’s no
sign of impatient pacing; he’s content to check his iPhone and to look up
occasionally to acknowledge my gleeful smile.

I try on hats and he
joins me to make suggestions, laughing and shaking his head. It’s a ‘no’ to the
one with the floppy brim but the beret is a winner! This is fun.

For the next hour I
try on clothes. I wander out of the dressing room posing and twirling in bare
feet. Jake sends one of the assistants off on a mission for matching heels to
finish off the look and applauds when the outfit is complete.

From the corner of my
eye I notice a young assistant who is eyeing me with derision; I feel a twinge
of embarrassment and watch as she wrings her hands, seemingly incensed by my
self-indulgence. How strange.

I undress in the
cubicle, hanging up a ridiculously expensive evening dress the colour of ripe
strawberries with an unusual neckline and a structured bodice. Standing only in
my underwear I stop to take a mental snapshot of the moment. For the past two
hours I’ve felt like my old self, laughing and giggling at the silliest of
things. Jake has seen to it that I haven’t been rushed or abandoned; he’s been
the perfect minder and companion.

It’s been over 30
minutes since I last thought of Ayden and I’m shocked by my own admission. But,
then again, it’s not Ayden I’m forgetting, it’s a pale imitation: a husband
who’s becoming less of a stranger every day. In a split second, my joy melts
away like a snowflake on a windowsill, leaving only a glistening droplet as
proof it ever existed. 

Realising that puts
everything in perspective. I blot a tear from the corner of my eye and pack
away my things. Having taken some time to dress, I make my way over to the
counter. All my purchases have been wrapped and deposited in half a dozen
stylish bags and Jake is handing over his card. I can’t let him do that.

“Here.  Take my Visa
card,” I call out. “You don’t have to pay for them.”

He puts his card back
into his wallet. “Too late.” He picks up the bags and moves towards the door,
offering the obliging shop assistant a wink as she opens the door, clearly
sorry to see him leave.

I catch hold of his
arm. “Seriously Jake, you must let me give you the money for my clothes. I
don’t expect you to mind me and pay for my shopping too.”

He won’t hear of it.
“No way. Let’s call it a belated wedding present.” He manhandles the bags. “Do
you want to grab a drink or head back?”

“I think we should
head back. We’ve been out for hours.” From somewhere above our heads there is
the sound of thunder; it rumbles across the skylights and echoes around the
concourse like a train approaching a station. Shoppers are scattering. “What’s
happening?”

He shrugs his
shoulders and frowns, unable to offer an answer. “I don’t know. I’ll ask.” He
approaches a young girl and asks her, “What’s going on?”

Using animated
gestures, she explains that a very bad storm is coming and people are being
evacuated from the mall before the skylights break or the roads become too
flooded to get home.

“Fuck!” Jakes says.
“I’ll ring the limo guy to come pick us up where he dropped us off.” I take
three of the bags to lighten his load and free up his right hand.

As we leave Pacific
Place a chilling wind takes me in its grasp, stealing the breath from my lungs;
it blows from the ocean in gusts. Rain falls vertically in sheets, creating a
seemingly impenetrable wall through which we must dash, hand in hand, in the
direction of the limousine; bags flapping, hair flying.

Jake squints and
pushes me onto the back seat, resting his hand on my head to prevent me from
catching it on the frame. “What the fuck! We’re gonna get drenched.”

I duck inside,
grappling with shopping bags and laughing. “My clothes are sticking to me.” I
tug at the lapels on my blazer. “These raindrops are like bullets!” He shakes
his head and the water flicks across my face, forcing me to hold up my hands
and giggle. “Stop! Stop!”

He scrapes his hands
across his face and over his hair, which I notice has grown an inch or so since
I last saw him.

“Sorry.” He grins,
gives the driver instructions and we begin our return journey downhill, back to
the hotel.

I smear the window
with my fingertips as it fogs over, checking out the chaotic conduct of
unwitting shoppers as they scurry along the pavement, doused by great waves of
rainwater created by cars like ours. When I look skyward there is the rumble of
more thunder, threatening to puncture the rolling clouds inflated with rain. In
view of earlier events, I wonder … is this the work of a tempestuous husband?
One so enraged with anger he has caused the sky to erupt so violently we must
return to the hotel before the roads are flooded? Surely not!

***

Fuelled by caffeine
and corned beef sandwiches, Mack spent most of Wednesday with his head down
cross-referencing dates, people and places. When he did lift his eyes it was
only to scroll through a computer screen or to pick up the telephone. He
amassed information from multiple sources, contacted social services,
university administrators, an adoption agency and the Manager of a Children’s
Residential Care Home, a pleasant sounding woman called Winifred Osoba. She
agreed to speak with him about one of her former dependant, Elise Kilbride.

It is with that
meeting in mind he selects a shirt and a pair of trousers from his limited
selection. Since being widowed a year ago, he has bought very few clothes. He
doesn’t see the need to ‘dress-up,’ but today is the exception; he may even
wear something from his ‘Sunday best’ collection.

His Sat Nav states
the 56-mile Journey to Hove will take around one hour fifteen minutes, but,
with the traffic and road works on the M25, it turns into an exercise in
perseverance. The excursion takes two hours and concludes with a formal
announcement, “You have reached your destination.”

He looks left and
right at the neat row of gardens fronting semi-detached properties, and edges
further towards the dead end. There, camouflaged behind naked branches is the
sign for Bright Hill.

He steps from his
car, straightens himself up, and presses the intercom. He’s expected. The gate
clicks open and he pushes it back, making rarely used hinges grind against one
another. The undignified squeaking stops and the lock snaps shut behind him. With
the enormous Victorian building in his sights, he takes out Elise’s photograph
and holds it up to eyelevel, moving his head left and right and back again to
make comparisons.

He’s come to the
right place.

He’s welcomed into
the building by a plump woman of around fifty with wild hair and a paintbrush
wedged behind her right ear; her cheeks are emblazoned with coloured paint
which gives her the look of a tribal elder. She escorts him upstairs, giving
him time to look about the impressive hallway at the stained glass, the ornate
tiling and the wide stairway. He’s making mental notes. ‘It’s well maintained
and well resourced. Children will be safe and well cared for here.’

As they ascend, she
asks him about his journey, how far he’s come and how bad the traffic was on
the M25. It’s all very perfunctory. Mack answers politely and is as relieved as
she is to reach the office where the grown-ups are based.

The office is
bustling with activity. The young lady nearest the door offers him tea or
coffee while the other members of staff look on suspiciously, refusing to make
eye-contact for some reason. Again, he makes a mental note, but before he can
jot down his observation on paper a rotund black woman breezes in wearing a
crimson smock dress and red shoes. She’s not at all like the woman he
visualised her over the phone. His mouth twitches in response to a private
thought.

More like Mother
Christmas than the mistress of the house.

Unlike the other
members of staff she offers him her hand; she engages him with her smile and
scrutinises him with eyes the colour of dark chocolate. Once inside her office
she directs him over to the window, where a small group of young children can
be seen playing on freshly painted climbing equipment.

“Just look at the
little mites,” she says. “They’re having so much fun it’ll be a terrible
struggle for Margaret to get them back indoors.” She directs him to a high
backed chair on the other side of her desk. “So, Detective Inspector Bowker,
what can we do for you?”

He takes out his notepad
and begins to flick back pages, licking his thumb a couple of times to ease the
process. “I’m investigating the tragic death of Miss Elise Richards or, as you
might know her, Elise Kilbride. She was a ward of this institution some 22
years ago.”