Bone and Cane (26 page)

Nick, instead of doing up his seat belt, slid an arm round Sarah’s shoulder, the hand carelessly brushing her right breast.

She gave him the address. Dawn was only an hour away. Nick wanted to kiss Sarah but she’d flinched slightly when he put his arm round her and he sensed that was because they weren’t alone. Nick didn’t know the driver, Rodney. A request to be discreet might have the opposite effect, so he kept quiet. Then the silence began to feel awkward, so he talked to Sarah in a low murmur, up close, the way he used to talk to her in bed.

‘I can’t believe you’re still single.’

‘I’ve always been choosy, you should know that.’

He chuckled. ‘I should never have let you go.’

‘As I recall, I didn’t give you a lot of choice.’ She squeezed his thigh.

‘Here we are,’ said Rodney.

Sarah tried to insist on paying, but Nick wouldn’t let her. Rodney nodded when Nick told him to keep the change. He didn’t acknowledge that he recognised Nick or knew who Sarah was. He’d keep schtum, Nick reckoned. Sarah stumbled out of the car and Nick helped her to the door. Inside the well-lit hall, she fumbled with the burglar alarm, taking two goes to turn it off. When she’d succeeded, he kissed her, propping her up with his arms as he did so. She was done in.

‘Let’s get you to bed,’ he said.

‘Bed,’ she repeated after him. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Which way?’

‘Follow me,’ she said, and began to sing, to the tune of a hit from when they were both toddlers, ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’: ‘One thousand, nine hundred and eighty-nine votes, tha-aa-at’s the size of my majority. One thousand, nine hundred and eighty-nine votes . . .’

She let go of his hand to open the bedroom door, turned on the light and, as soon as they were inside, began to tear off her crumpled clothes, not stopping at the underwear.

‘C’mere.’ Naked, her figure was fuller than before, which only made her all the more alluring. Sarah’s long hair fell across her chest, setting off her taut, perfect breasts. Nick found himself staring at the small purple birthmark above her cleft of pubic hair, then stopped himself. He had forgotten the way one of her knees seemed to point away from the other. First love, best love. This might be the last time he slept with a woman for three years. He wanted to remember every moment.

‘Do I have to undress you, too?’ she asked, reaching to unbutton his fly.

‘No. Get into bed. I’m going to find us both a glass of water.’

‘Hurry,’ she said, obeying his instructions. ‘I’ve been dreaming about this for as long as I can remember. I want you inside me, now.’

When he returned from the kitchen, two minutes later, she was fast asleep.

32

N
ick got out of the shower and returned to the bedroom with a large towel wrapped around his waist. Sarah lay in the bed where he had slept, chastely, alongside her. Hearing Nick, she blinked awake.

‘You’re in good shape,’ she said, as he removed the towel.

‘I got a lot of exercise, the last few years.’

‘What happened last night?’

‘You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.’

‘And before that?’

‘You won an election.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’

He let the towel drop and came over, kissed her on the forehead.

‘Congratulations again. Why don’t I make you some tea?’

‘That’d be nice.’ Sarah got out of bed and rattled open the blinds. It was a glorious, sunny day.

‘New Labour, new weather,’ she observed. ‘I think I’ll take a shower myself.’

Nick made tea and considered making breakfast, too, but could only find two slices of bread that were at least three days old. No eggs or butter, just marge, half an inch of Old English marmalade and a small jar of Marmite. At least she had milk, skimmed. He checked the hall but she didn’t have a paper delivered.

When he returned to the bedroom, Sarah was still in the shower. He got back into bed and turned on her portable radio. Labour’s majority was 179. Sarah would be one of 419 Labour MPs. John Major had resigned the Tory party leadership. He summed up these details when Sarah returned from the shower, wearing a white towelling dressing gown.

‘This is like old times.’ She hadn’t washed her hair but it was damp at the edges so looked shorter. Sarah swigged her tea, then reached into her night table and put on a pair of glasses with round lenses, like the ones she always used to wear.

‘You look even better now that I can see you properly.’

Sarah lifted up the bed sheets and kissed his flaccid penis, which uncurled at her touch. There was a clicking noise from the hall.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Just the answering machine. I set it to “no rings”. There’ll be a ton of messages. But I’m still in bed.’ She kissed him on the lips.

‘How’s the head?’ he asked, sliding his hand up between her thighs, which were still a little clammy from the shower.

‘I took a couple of paracetamols. I’ll be fine.’ She kissed him again. ‘Now let’s do what we didn’t get round to last night.’

There was a knock on the front door.

Nick waited in the bedroom until the journalist had gone. Then he got dressed. The day was too busy for sex. Sarah toasted stale bread and made coffee. Radio Four announced the appointment of the new Home Secretary.

‘Will you get any kind of job?’ Nick asked, feeling grubby in his clothes from the night before.

‘Me? I’m just one of the masses. I wasn’t expected to get back in, so I won’t figure in anybody’s calculations.’

‘When will you go back to London?’

‘Monday. I was expecting to have to clear my office in a hurry. No need now.’ She cursed. ‘Forgot. I was meant to be meeting this guy for dinner tomorrow – about a job – I’ll get out of it.’

Before Nick could ask who the someone was, the doorbell rang. Sarah returned with a huge bunch of lilies. She read the card.

‘That’s sweet of him. I’ll get a vase.’

While she was gone, Nick couldn’t resist reading the card.
Seems you won’t be needing that job after all. Couldn’t be happier for you. Well done. AS.
The message had been written by the florist yet Sarah seemed to know who AS was.

When she returned, before Nick could ask about the flowers, Sarah underwent a personality change.

‘I’m going to have to go into work mode for a while,’ she said.

‘I’ll get out of your way,’ Nick said, awkwardly.

‘I don’t want to kick you out. You’ve not got anywhere you have to be?’

‘No. I do a bit of English GCSE tuition, but I don’t have a lesson until Sunday. I’d like to make myself useful. Is there anything you need?’

‘I could really use an
Evening Post
.’

‘Why don’t I go and get one?’ Nick felt awkward, unsure what to say to her next, and was glad to have an excuse to get out of the flat. ‘I could pick up some food while I’m out.’

‘Would you? That’d be fantastic.’

She was already opening a notebook, arranging it on the table by the phone. The answering machine’s red LED indicated that Sarah had forty-three messages waiting. Nick tried to remember how much money he had on him. He didn’t want to ask Sarah for any. Enough, he reckoned, even after paying for the taxi last night.

‘Don’t be too long,’ Sarah called. ‘I’m starving.’

‘An hour at most,’ he shouted. Outside, he marvelled at the cherry blossom cascading onto the Park’s wide, sun-drenched streets, covering the paving stones in a shower of pink snow. He began the brief walk into town, a spring in his step, filled with thoughts of Sarah.

He was back at the flat an hour later, festooned with Marks and Sparks bags. Nick gave Sarah a smile as wide as the Trent when she opened the door. He watched Sarah try to mirror the smile back. She failed.

‘You look like you’ve been at that table since I left,’ he told her.

‘I only just got through my messages,’ she said. ‘Listen to this one.’

She played him one from a bloke with a nasal, educated voice.

‘Eric here. Delighted you got back in. I understand you’ll be swamped but I need to discuss something with you. It concerns a taxi driver you vouched for last night, an ex-con called Nicholas Cane. I wanted to check what you know about Cane before we decide whether to go ahead with the case against him.’

‘Who’s Eric?’ Nick asked.

‘The Chief Constable. I need to decide how to reply to Eric, see if I can stop them putting you back inside.’

‘I’d appreciate that,’ Nick mumbled, the old dread settling on him. Sarah picked up the phone.

‘I’ll put him on speaker so you can hear, but keep quiet.’

All the affection had left her voice. He was part of her caseload now. She had the Chief Constable on speed dial, Nick noted. At times like this, he wished he was a praying man. If this call went badly Nick would be within spitting distance of forty before he got out of the big house. ‘Eric’ answered on the second ring. Sarah accepted fulsome congratulations.

‘We’re expecting big things of you now that you’re in government,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘Very big things indeed. What can I do for you?’

‘Two things,’ Sarah said. ‘I think they’re connected. The taxi driver I vouched for last night: do you know who reported him?’

‘An anonymous tip, I think. There’s not enough evidence for a prosecution, but since he’s out on license, we can take him back in for any infringement. Do you still want to vouch for him?’

‘He’s an old friend who’s trying to turn his life around,’ Sarah said. ‘He was taking his sister-in-law to have her first baby. I’d appreciate it if this could go away.’

‘Done. What was the other thing?’

‘I think I know who had it in for Nick Cane – my bad penny, the one that keeps showing up: Ed Clark.’

‘What’s the connection. A prison feud?’

‘No. Something that happened since then. Trouble over a woman.’

‘Trouble usually is,’ the Chief Constable said, in his thin voice, which managed to be both obsequious and authoritative at the same time. Surely senior police weren’t usually this cosy with local MPs. But Sarah used to be a police officer. Maybe that made a difference.

‘When we spoke last week you said you’d look into the Shanks case again.’

‘I spoke to the officers involved. The evidence against him wasn’t strong enough for the appeal court, but we’re still sure Clark did it. Looking for somebody else would be a waste of time.’

‘So he got away with murder?’

The Chief Constable didn’t attempt to conceal his impatience.

‘What else did you expect when you campaigned for his release?’

‘I thought a retrial would get to the bottom of the matter.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, that’s a very naïve point of view.’

‘Ed wrote to me. So did a couple of other people who were convinced that he was innocent. I thought they were right and that’s why I started the campaign. There was no real evidence against him.’

‘Nothing concrete enough for a conviction, but there’s plenty of proof, if you know where to look. There was a lot of tenuous stuff that never made it into court. Most of it pointed in his direction, too.’

‘Terry Shanks wasn’t the only police officer responsible for Ed being sent down.’

‘That’s right. But he was the only officer whose sister was having it away with Ed.’

‘I wish you’d told me that before,’ Sarah said. ‘Polly Bolton played me for a fool.’

‘We kept her name out of the robbery trial, at her brother’s insistence. Bolton wasn’t relevant to Clark’s first or second case – involving her would have muddied the waters.’

‘What would you say if I told you that Polly’s going out with Ed Clark again?’

‘I’d say pull the other one.’

‘I’m pulling hard,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s been seeing her for at least a couple of weeks.’

There was a long pause before the Chief Constable responded. ‘Clark managed to convince you he was innocent,’ he said. ‘Maybe he pulled the same stunt on her. But I’ll pass that information on. Tell your taxi driver we might have a few questions for him, but he’s off the hook.’

‘I will, Eric. Appreciated. Thanks.’

She hung up. Nick wanted to hug her, to thank her, to go to bed with her.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘It was nothing.’ Sarah’s face was serious, glum. She was already focused on Ed. Nick’s problem was in the past. He had to help her in the present.

‘Perhaps Ed really is innocent,’ Nick said. ‘If he convinced Polly . . .’

‘It would be much better all round if he were innocent,’ Sarah said. ‘But I think he killed those people. I think I made a terrible mistake.’

Nick had no reply. Sarah got up and put the kettle on. While she was waiting for it to boil, she looked at the papers.

The
Guardian
talked about a late swing to the Tories not being enough to prevent a Labour victory. The local paper had
OUT OUT OUT
in a red strip below its masthead. Next to each word was the photograph of a defeated Tory MP. The main headline was
LABOUR ROMP IN
. A list of local results showed Five Labour gains. The only East Midlands seat the Tories had managed to hang on to was across the Trent in rich, middle-class West Bridgford, where the Tory Chancellor of the Exchequer had held on to his seat with a much reduced majority. On page five was a picture of an ecstatic-looking Sarah with the caption:
BONE BREAKS BY-ELECTION JINX
. The paper reminded its readers that, according to statisticians, seats lost in by-elections always reverted to the losing party. Not anymore.

Sarah made coffee. They sat together, reading papers, like the cosy couple they had once been. At five, Sarah put on the news, listened to the latest cabinet appointments. The new parliamentary term started on Tuesday. Nick would lose Sarah then, if not before. He didn’t know what to say to her.

As afternoon became evening, she kept answering the phone, turning down invitations to drinks, parties, meals, earnestly discussing the make-up of the new government. Every so often someone asked about her prospects of a government job.

‘Not a chance, but I have to stay near a phone just in case,’ was her standard reply. ‘Me and every other bugger who got re-elected.’