Blood of the Innocents (31 page)

‘I have been busy,’ he said.

‘I know. I saw you on the local news. But even a phone call would have been nice.’

‘Yes.’

‘Anyway, now you’re here you may as well make yourself useful.’ She leaned over and opened the cabinet by the bed. ‘Mrs Masud has brought me all these things that I don’t really need. It was kind of her but will you take some of it back to the house?’

‘Yes, of course.’

She sorted out a plastic carrier bag of things that were surplus to requirement.

‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’

‘Twice in two days, eh? Must be a record. My cup runneth over.’

Outwardly, the tiny, neat cul-de-sac in Leamington where his mother still lived had barely changed since he was resident there too. The two of them had moved suddenly from their London home when Mariner was about three and it was the only place he could remember living as a child. Built between the wars, it originally belonged to his grandparents and they’d shared it right up until Granny and Grandpa had retired to a bungalow in Pembrokeshire, where he’d then spent some summer holidays. Tonight, he could hardly get down the road, which like many was coping badly with the increase in car usage. Even with all them parked half on the pavement, a practice of which Mariner strongly disapproved, there was barely enough room for another to pass.

The street rang to the shouts of the usual motley gang of neighbourhood kids playing and getting along, or not, regardless of shape, size or skin colour. One or two adults were out too, tending their gardens as dusk fell on the balmy summer evening. Mariner pushed open the iron gate, which sported a recent coat of paint, as did the glossy white windowsills of his mother’s house. Guilt nibbled at him again. Rose had given up waiting for him and got on with it herself, which had put her where she was. It surprised him. His mother had always eschewed the trappings of constant acquisition and modernisation, so it was unusual that she’d have bothered with decorating at all.

Walking up the drive, he saw Mrs Masud and thanked her for ringing him.

‘I wasn’t sure if anyone else would have contacted you.’ Mariner wondered what she meant by ‘anyone else’. Who else was there?

His mother was one of the few remaining white residents in the street. During the late 60s and early 70s Asian families had begun moving in, prompting a mass exodus of whites, and leaving his mother in the minority. She’d barely even noticed. He let himself in the front door. The house smelled overwhelmingly of emulsion and white spirit and it took him a couple of minutes to work out what it was that looked different. The hall stairs and landing were coated in fresh paint, but then he’d known about that already. Then he realised: it was the tidiness.

Following his grandparents’ departure, the house that he’d grown up in had always been awash with clutter. Treasures collected along the way from every conceivable source, saved for a rainy day, or in case they came in useful; mementoes and keepsakes, all randomly arranged on shelves and furniture, with barely a space between them. The genes responsible for orderliness were something else he’d inherited from his father.

Now, many of the shelves and surfaces were bare in preparation for more decorating. She was blitzing the place. He walked through the downstairs rooms and each one was the same. It was not before time. The place hadn’t been touched in years, but even so, he couldn’t help wondering what had prompted the sudden burst of activity. It crossed his mind that there could be more to the hospital admission than he’d thought, but rejected the idea almost immediately. Everything had been too relaxed.

Upstairs in her bedroom was a more familiar scene, the dressing table crowded with trinkets. He put away the things that he’d brought home for her and, out of habit, checked each of the other rooms. In the spare room he found a stack of black bin liners stuffed full to bursting, with what had once taken up shelf space downstairs; there were old clothes and bric à brac; artefacts that stirred memories of Mariner’s childhood. Some of it was from the second large bedroom, the one that nobody had used since he left home. It too had been decorated. It was still a far cry from Lewis Everett’s room. His mother was putting things in order for something, but right now he had little capacity for another mystery. Mariner returned the rest of the items he’d brought with him to what he deemed to be the most appropriate places, and left.

On the way home he had to drive very near to Tony Knox’s house. Following the visit to Brian Goodway, Mariner wanted to sound him out. The ground floor lights were encouraging, but the look on Knox’s face when he came to the door was not. The fumes nearly knocked Mariner off his feet.

‘All right, boss?’ Knox was surly and suspicious to an identical degree.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something. Can I come in?’

With great reluctance, Knox stepped aside to let Mariner pass. Mariner almost wished he hadn’t bothered. The living room looked just that. A lot of living had been going on in here and some clean air wouldn’t go amiss. Knox repositioned himself in the dent in the sofa opposite the TV that had been permanently created by a lot of sitting. Around him was the detritus that could only have accrued over considerable time: a handful of mugs, several squat, green beer bottles, a plate bearing the remains of an unappetising looking sandwich. Even Knox himself looked lived in, wearing a stained T-shirt over scruffy, faded jeans. And Mariner noticed that the trademark buzz-cut was beginning to grow into a crew.

‘Theresa not back yet?’ Mariner asked, unnecessarily.

Knox grunted. ‘She’s not coming back.’

‘Her mum’s taken a turn for the worse?’ Mariner asked, struck by what a strange coincidence that was.

But Knox blew that one out of the water. ‘It’s our marriage that’s taken a turn for the worse,’ he said. ‘Theresa’s left me.’

‘Christ. Are you sure?’

Knox gave him the withering look the question deserved. ‘I mean, are you sure this isn’t just another temporary thing?’

‘I’m sure. It hasn’t happened overnight.’

‘So what have you been up to this time?’ Mariner had already had personal experience of Knox’s extra-marital activities over a year ago, when Knox had hooked up with Jenny. When Theresa had kicked him out, he and Jenny had ended up staying at Mariner’s place. It wasn’t the first time Knox had strayed and, although at the time it had seemed like their marriage was over, happily it was only a matter of weeks until Knox saw sense, and Theresa found it somewhere within herself to forgive him.

Mariner wasn’t aware that Knox had been dipping his wick again but it didn’t mean that he hadn’t. He’d never really understood what made Tony Knox tick. But surely, even he was bright enough to grasp the obvious truth: that a woman will only put up with so much. ‘I thought you were meant to have given all that up,’ he said.

‘Not guilty, boss.’ Knox held up his hands in defence. ‘I haven’t played away from home since Jenny. Then, just as the halo was polishing up to a nice shine, Theresa told me she was leaving.’

‘Maybe she just needs some space,’ Mariner said, cringing inwardly at his choice of words.

‘She’s moved in with another bloke. Does that sound to you like she needs space?’

‘Bloody hell,’ was the best response Mariner could come up with. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘It’s not something I’m that proud of. She met him over the Internet. It makes it worse, somehow. It’s so bloody tacky.’

‘Only because of what you and I both know. I’m sure there are plenty of responsible people who use the Internet as a legitimate means of communication.’

‘Is this what you’d call legitimate? They’ve been at it for months, years even, for all I know. All the while I thought she was going back up to Liverpool to visit her sick mum she was really busy rekindling an old flame. Romantic, isn’t it? All she was waiting for was for Gary to leave home before she followed suit. She doesn’t need me any more. She said that her job with the kids was done so there was no other reason to stick around.’ He faltered. ‘When I asked her what about us, she said, “What us?”.’

Mariner thought the word was ironic but all he could muster was: ‘Christ. I mean: Christ.’

Knox grimaced. ‘That the best you can do? No “poetic justice” lecture?’

‘You know me better than that. And I’m not about to feed the gossip mill either.’

‘Doesn’t matter, does it? It won’t be long before it’s all round the canteen. There’ll be a few sides splitting over this. The sad old fart’s got what he deserved.’

‘I’m sorry, mate.’

‘Not half as fuckin’ sorry as I am,’ Knox retorted, bitterly. ‘It’s like there was this whole other little parallel world going on that I never even knew existed, but suddenly, hindsight opened the door and there it was. Suddenly, I can see what a total shit I’ve been. I thought I had it all under control and meanwhile, Theresa’s the one pulling all the strings. This must be the first time in my life when I’ve looked forward to the prospect of overtime. And do you know what the biggest fuckin’ irony of all is? Now that I’m free to go out with any woman I like, I’m just not interested.’

‘Do you know who this other bloke is?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘She told you?’

‘She didn’t have to. Come and look at this.’

Mariner followed Knox up the stairs to a small back bedroom where a PC sat on a small desk. He logged on to the Internet and typed in a web address. ‘Old Friends’ said the banner that unfurled before them.

‘What’s this?’ asked Mariner.

‘It’s one of these school reunion websites. Watch.’

Mariner watched as Knox typed in the name of a school and a date and a list of names appeared on the screen. Theresa Fitzpatrick (Knox) was among them. But he ignored it, instead clicking on Stephen Lamb. Up came the details for Stephen Lamb. A brief paragraph revealing that Lamb, now forty-nine, had built up a successful construction business and, after a recent divorce, was single again. The end of the message asked if anyone knew the whereabouts of Theresa Fitzpatrick. It was followed by an e-mail address and a crystal clear invitation.

‘Do you think somebody told her?’ Mariner surmised.

‘She was well capable of finding it herself. She’s been e-mailing him for months. And all that time, not a hint of what was going on.’

‘When did you find out?’

‘Thirteen days ago. She went up to her mother’s, so I thought. But then she sent me the letter saying that she isn’t coming back.’

‘Christ.’ The silence that followed seemed to stretch for hours.

‘Want a drink?’ Knox asked. He’d clearly already had more than enough, but now wasn’t the time to point that out.

‘All right.’

Knox poured him a generous measure of Scotch and the silence resumed. ‘How long have you been together?’ asked Mariner eventually.

‘Since we were fifteen. We met at the Coconut Grove in nineteen seventy-nine.’

‘That what?’

‘It was a nightclub in Tuebrook. There she was, dancing round the handbags with her mates. She was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. But she was a good Catholic girl. She made me wait.’

‘What, until you got married?’

‘Till she knew I was serious. Jesus, the number of nights I went home with my nuts on fire.’

‘How many times were you unfaithful?’

Knox visibly flinched. ‘You mean the number of other women? Four in total. The first one was the hardest. I felt really bad about it. But after I’d done it that once it got easier, easier to convince myself that I wasn’t doing any harm. Theresa was busy with the kids. She was shattered all the time. I convinced myself I was doing her a favour, taking the pressure off.’

‘Did you ever do it out of spite?’

‘No. Why?’ He looked up at Mariner.

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

But Knox couldn’t. The cogs were turning. ‘Christ, you haven’t—’ he said at last, having figured it out.