A Death of Distinction (12 page)

The side ward where Flora had been was now occupied by an old lady with a broken hip, but although she was physically not there, Marc couldn't get her out of his mind.

She haunted his dreams and, when he least expected it, his waking hours. In the operating theatre, checking the technical equipment, he would see the sweet pale face, with its tremulous smile; the rich hair tumbling over her shoulders after the bandages had been removed, shining like gold when the sunlight caught it, making him shiver when he thought what it would be like to run his fingers through it and feel its silky softness. His brain and his hands worked on autopilot: when his arms were round a patient, lifting them on to a trolley, it was Flora's soft body he felt; when he prepared anyone for surgery, squeezing their arm for the needle, he was squeezing the plump creamy flesh of her bare arms and seeing the swell of her breasts under the white silk nightdress. He was disgusted with himself at the gross impulses he felt, yet excited.

This was all so totally unexpected. The last thing he wanted was to become involved with
anybody
at the moment yet, one way or another, he had to see her. She'd be glad for them to meet again, he was sure of that. While she was still at the hospital, he'd made it in his way to pop into her room for a few minutes several times a day, though he'd no valid reason to be there, other than to see her, and she'd thanked him gravely and told him his little visits made the time pass less slowly. He felt there was an instinctive understanding between them. He could talk to her as he'd never talked to anyone else: when he'd told her about the accident to June and Frank – though he hadn't spoken of his shattering discovery that they hadn't been his real parents – her eyes had filled with sympathetic tears.

She'd looked so lost, so in need of being cared for. She made him feel manly and protective. The question of how best to get in touch with her and help her was quickly becoming an obsession with him, the way things did, the way it had become an overriding need with him to find his mother ...

Waiting for Avril Kitchin outside the coffee shop, the day after he'd spoken to her in there, seeing her approach from a distance, he had thought again how dreary and peasant-like she appeared, with the same shopping bag dangling from her arm, the same look of frowning doggedness on the face under the headscarf.

And again, he couldn't help noticing the heaviness of her features, how grudging her greeting was, how guarded. She still wasn't sure of him, what his motives really were, how far to trust him, and he knew he was going to have to tread softly.

‘I thought we'd go somewhere else, it's not very private in there,' he said, indicating the steamy café behind him with its beige Formica-topped tables set too close together. He felt rather sick with apprehension at what this coming meeting was to reveal, his stomach was tied in knots, and he didn't think he could face the smell of hamburger.

‘All right.' She seemed indifferent as to where they went. ‘Where would you like to go?'

‘I thought the pub over there. It seems quiet.'

He realized immediately they entered the Crown and Anchor that it was quiet because it was a pub of the spit-and-sawdust variety, not having much to offer at this time of day, either in the way of comfort or even a decent selection of bar food. He could see it might have a kind of welcome for some in the evening, when all the lamps were lit and the juke box going and people were talking and playing darts and noisily enjoying themselves, but at midday it was deserted, stale with the aftermath of cigarette smoke and beer. Christmas decorations, though it was now the middle of January, still hung in festoons from the ceiling, a pair of dispirited cardboard Santas stood pointlessly at either end of the bar, dubiously regarding the few uninteresting sandwiches of debatable age which were displayed there. Marc and Avril agreed on cheese, and Marc ordered a lager for himself, though Avril asked for coffee. The barman raised his eyebrows and said he'd see what he could do, much as if he'd been asked for champagne cocktails, or a bottle of Château Lafitte.

They carried their food across to a comer where two slippery vinyl-covered banquette seats met, with an indifferently wiped table between them. ‘You needn't finish them if you don't want,' Marc said, pushing his sandwiches away after a few bites. ‘Though I don't know what else I could get you, except maybe a bag of crisps.'

‘They're all right. I've eaten worse,' she replied ungraciously, working her way through stale-tasting cheese between doughy slabs of bread with the same concentration she'd given to the Danish pastry in the coffee shop. The consumption of food was evidently a matter of serious intent to Avril Kitchin. He sat back and waited with mounting impatience, guessing he wouldn't get anything out of her until she'd finished eating.

As soon as she'd demolished the last crumb, he asked, ‘Well, what happened, what did she say?'

Avril looked round for her coffee, which was not yet forthcoming, before answering. ‘I'm not sure.'

‘What d'you mean – not sure? You
did
speak to her?'

He leaned across and took hold of her plump wrist, not realizing he might be hurting her until she angrily pulled her hand away. ‘Yes, I did. But I meant I'm still not sure whether it's a good idea or not. She's beginning to make a life for herself, she's learning –'

‘Where does she live?' he interrupted roughly.

‘She's staying with me. I've a flat in Branxmore.'

‘Branxmore!' He stared at her, feeling the blood rush to his head.

Avril Kitchin looked offended. ‘It's not a very select area, I know, but it's not that bad! I can think of worse places than Coltmore Road.'

‘It's not that, it's just that I live in Branxmore myself,' Marc said, forcing himself to be calm. He could hardly take it in. She'd been living in Branxmore, all the time! Three or four streets away from where he himself lived, only just around the corner, you might say. He could actually have passed her in the street, they might even have stood next to each other at the supermarket checkout, or in the launderette. Though he felt, somehow, he would instinctively have known her if they'd met, even though she must have changed considerably, and the only photo he had to fix her image in his mind was the blurred and grainy newspaper cutting.

The coffee came, a predictably grey, watery-looking substance, some of which had slopped into the saucer. At least it appeared to be hot, judging by the steam rising from the cup. The landlord took away their plates, unsurprised by Marc's unconsumed sandwiches.

Avril sipped the scalding liquid and then she said slowly, reluctantly, as if she'd rather not be saying it, ‘She wants you to come round, on Wednesday night if you can manage, for coffee, and something to eat. It won't be much, just a snack.' She watched his face, the beginnings of his smile, and her own expression hardened. She said roughly, ‘I have to tell you, it wasn't my idea.'

He didn't care. It didn't matter to him what this woman thought or said. It was his mother who'd invited him – his
mother
! She had
asked
to see him! He was going to see her at last, face to face, he hadn't had to plead, something he'd been very afraid of having to do. He said, doing his best to conceal his fierce elation, forcing himself to use a more humble tone than he wanted to, ‘Won't you tell me something about her first, how she came to be living with you?'

‘No. If she wants to tell you, she'll tell you herself. But I warn you, go easy on her. She's been through a lot.

‘I know.'

‘No, you don't,' she contradicted flatly. ‘Nobody does, who hasn't experienced it.' He knew, without her saying it, that it had been an experience Avril Kitchin had shared.

They left the pub, and most of the coffee even Avril hadn't been able to drink. Dizzy with euphoria, Marc had watched her clump sturdily away into the January afternoon in her moon boots, her shopping bag over her arm.

When Dex Davis saw that the inspector sitting on the edge of the table in the interview room and waiting to question him was only a woman, a near-redhead with a tasty figure and long legs, he visibly perked up. He knew how to treat women like her, you just had to give them the eye, it was going to be a doddle. Wasn't a tart yet he hadn't been able to twist round his little finger. His sisters had always stuck up for him, sworn black was white, lied like the clappers to get him out of trouble if he'd sweet-talked them. And up to now he'd only ever had to smile at his mother and say he was sorry and he'd been all right.

Twenty minutes later, he was sweating. A right cow, this one. Nearly as bad as that butch screw, Reynolds, at Conyhall. Even worse than that Kite, who was sitting with her.

After two hours, eyes narrowed, he knew he wasn't going to get away with it, and was rapidly calculating what his chances were, while automatically repeating that he'd had nothing to do with the bombing.

Abigail sighed. ‘Don't mess me about, Derek. You swear you're going to get your own back on the governor – and then as soon as you're outside, he cops it! And you expect us to believe you'd nothing to do with it?'

It gave Dex a big charge, satisfied his need for revenge, the idea that Jack Lilburne had been blown to smithereens, but over the years he'd learned not to show his feelings.

‘You'll not walk away from this, you know. It won't be a couple of years this time, it'll be life. And it won't include any safari trips, I promise you.'

He was known as a hard man, proud of it, his street cred depended on it. But
life!
Christ. He knew they weren't bluffing, not this time. ‘There's no way I'm going down for that bomb,' he said, ‘no
way!
'

‘Now we're talking, my friend.' And half an hour later, she said, ‘OK, this mate of yours, the one you say you met in the pub –'

‘He's no mate of mine. Just some guy that was around, I tell you. He asked me if I could get him the stuff and I said no problem. If he used it to do for Lilburne, that's down to him.'

‘Why you?' Kite said. ‘If he'd never met you before, how did he know you'd do that for him? Shooting your mouth off, were you?'

‘Just talking to the others, that's all.' He saw their scepticism. ‘I might've said, “Somebody should put a bomb under that bastard.”‘

‘Might have? And added that you knew how it could be done?'

‘Well, I'd had a jar or two, you know how it is. This guy must've heard what I said. When I went to the gents, he followed me and told me he could make it worth me while, like. But I didn't do the bomb.'

‘Just got the stuff for him.'

‘No, I never! I just told him I knew somebody who could.'

‘Names?'

‘I don't grass on me mates.'

Not if he'd any sense, he wouldn't. If he'd any choice. Which Abigail could tell Dex was beginning to see he hadn't. Even though the criminal fraternity had never been renowned for their long-term forward thinking. She changed tack. ‘How much did he pay you?'

‘Half a grand.'

‘Five hundred pounds! Pull the other one.'

‘And a couple of grand for the stuff –'

‘Ah, at last. The bomb materials. Where did they come from?'

Dex looked shifty and refused to say. On and on it went, turn and turn about – how much were you
really
paid? What did he look like, this man you met in the pub, are you sure you don't know him, where did you get the explosives, how did you know who to go to ...?

They were presently joined by the big man, the super, who sat himself down and said nothing, just listened and watched, which unnerved Dex more than the woman and the sergeant's endless questions ... ‘We want names, Derek,' Abigail said. ‘A lot more information, and names.'

‘If I tell you –'

‘I'm not dealing with you, Derek. You're not in a prime position for that.'

In the end, he came up with a name – Clarke, he said, gazing into space, John Clarke. And then the admission that the bomb equipment had been left in the unlocked boot of a car parked in a deserted demolition lot down by the river ... sticks of explosives, leads, detonators in a biscuit tin. To be replaced with the required money in used tenners, no problem. But he wouldn't yet say who'd agreed to supply the materials.

‘All right, Dex,' Abigail said at last, standing up and taking her jacket from the back of her chair, ready to follow the superintendent out, who'd left the room as quietly as he came in.

‘You mean I can go?'

She and Kite exchanged smiles. ‘Not on your life! We're keeping you in here till you tell us who provided those explosives. And there's still the matter of that dodgy Orion of yours.'

Barry Davis, Dex's father and erstwhile husband of Bridie, had not at first been cooperative in the matter of the Orion, which his son had eventually admitted he'd bought from the backstreet garage where his father worked. Possibly because Davis Senior had been interrupted in the consumption of a vast plate of chips, under which lurked black pudding, bacon and fried eggs, with maybe a fried tomato or two as yet undisclosed. Accompanied by thick slabs of bread and butter. All adding another dimension of strain to an already complaining waistband, tight over a check workshirt, open to reveal a white T-shirt.

He was an older version of Dex, even less bright. Trying hard to retain his youth, and keep up with his new young wife, with tight jeans and his hair short on top and tied at the back, a gold identity bracelet and a gold earring – it seemed to be a family adornment – in one ear.

Bright enough to know, however, that he was in it up to the eyebrows, as far as the car was concerned, he and the man he was working with. The Orion, to nobody's surprise, had been nicked, resprayed, given new number plates before being sold to Dex at a giveaway price.