Eye Contact (8 page)

She trailed off, eyes focused on something far away. Harland steered her gently back from the edge.

‘So, there wasn’t a boyfriend?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Claire nodded. ‘She was seeing a guy called Simon. He was all right at first – Vicky really liked him – but I don’t reckon he was all that supportive when her mum died. People need looking after when they lose someone, you know?’

Harland knew. For a moment he was in a different place, wrapped in a darkness too deep for tears, but he managed to keep his face steady as he struggled back to the surface.

‘So she ended it?’

‘Not sure. They just saw less and less of each other, and then after a while she said it was over.’ Claire frowned. ‘I don’t reckon she dumped him, though – she was really gutted about him for a while. He probably just couldn’t cope with all the upset after her mum died.’

Harland understood. He remembered the friends who became more and more insistent (
‘If there’s anything we can do, Graham . . .’
) but spent less and less time with him. When the numbness had gone, he found he was alone. Nobody wanted to endure the awkward atmosphere that clung to him, to the house where they’d lived. Sympathy was easier than support.

‘It must have been a difficult time,’ he said quietly. Then, gathering himself, ‘What was Simon’s last name?’

‘Matthews, I think . . .’ She looked thoughtful, then her eyes widened a little. ‘But you don’t think he did it, do you? Not Simon!’

Harland held up his hand in a calming gesture.

‘I simply want to know Vicky a bit better so I can find out what happened to her, that’s all. These are just the standard questions that we ask – right, Sergeant?’

Mendel looked up and agreed with an earnest nod. Claire looked wary but settled slowly back into her chair.

‘So,
after
Simon, did she see anyone else?’

‘No. Well, I think she quite liked one of the guys at work for a while, but he was married. And anyway, she was concentrating on fixing the house up, always painting and stuff. She wanted to sell it and move back into Bristol, but it needed a lot doing to it first.’

‘Did she enjoy her work?’

‘Oh yeah, she loved it. She joined them ages ago – before we moved in together – working her way up the ladder. I’ve had three different jobs in that time but she was happy where she was. A really nice bunch of people by the sound of things.’

Harland maintained an encouraging smile as he listened to her, slowly piecing together the picture, first of Vicky, then of Claire – work, friends, family – but nothing stood out. Eventually, with the room becoming claustrophobic, he decided to bring the session to an end.

‘And when did you last see Vicky?’

‘We had coffee together last Thursday.’ Claire began toying with her handbag again. ‘We’d often do that – meet up at Starbucks near the station, or go and sit in the park at lunchtime if the weather was nice . . .’

‘And how did she seem to you? Anything unusual?’

‘She just seemed really happy.’ Her voice was plaintive now. ‘Everything was going well for her at work, and we were making plans to go out this weekend.’

Her shoulders sagged and she sat, staring down into her lap, murmuring, ‘She was really looking forward to it . . .’

Harland caught Mendel’s eye, then deliberately pushed his chair back from the table.

‘You’ve been a great help, Claire,’ he said softly. ‘It’s been really useful for me to learn more about Vicky, and I appreciate it.’

Claire sniffed and smiled at him.

Mendel pulled the door closed and stood under the flickering light.

‘Well?’ he said after a moment. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘I think we’re further away now than when we started.’ Harland sighed.

‘What about the ex-boyfriend?’

‘Let’s track him down and see where he was at the relevant time, but he doesn’t seem too likely, does he?’

Mendel shrugged. ‘Who else is there?’

‘Speak to the people at her work,’ Harland replied. ‘Find out about this married guy she liked, and see if there’s anything that jumps out – you know what to look for.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll see if there’s anything new from Forensics, and then I’m done for the day.’

‘Yeah.’ Mendel grinned. ‘Firth said you were in early this morning. Go home and put your feet up, eh?’

‘That’s the plan,’ Harland smiled. But it wasn’t. His smile faded as he turned and stalked away down the corridor.

Harland parked two streets away and walked. Dennel Road was mercifully quiet but he still hesitated as he approached the building. He checked his watch, but he wasn’t early – it was time. Taking one last look around, he mounted the steps quickly and pushed open the heavy door.

There was an oppressive stillness about the empty waiting room. He sifted through the pile of women’s magazines on the table until he found the token men’s car monthly, then retired to a chair to wait.

He thumbed through the dog-eared pages for a moment, vaguely taking in the same pictures he’d glanced at last time. One of the adverts mentioned a forthcoming motor show and he realised that it was three years out of date.

He tossed the magazine back onto the table in disgust. Posters on the opposite wall made accusing references to a range of mental illnesses. He was thinking of walking out – just for a cigarette perhaps – when the sound of footsteps brought him back to his surroundings.

Jean stood in the doorway, holding open the glass door.

‘Graham.’ The usual professional smile. ‘Would you like to come through?’

Just a rhetorical question to begin with, he thought as he rose to his feet, willing his body language to be calm. They hadn’t started yet. It didn’t start until they were in the room.

The sound of her heels echoed along the bare corridor as he followed her, silently admiring the movement of her hips. Any distraction was welcome, however brief. All too soon, she was pushing a brass key into a lock, opening the door marked ‘Private’.

He followed her into the small room. She sat down by the window, leaving him to close the door behind them.

‘Take a seat,’ she said, unnecessarily.

‘Thank you.’

He sat down carefully, trying to relax but unable to find a comfortable position. At least he’d avoided folding his arms or crossing his legs this time. There was a box of coloured tissues on the small table beside him. For other people.

He forced himself to meet her steady gaze, catching her assessing him from behind her dark-framed glasses for just a moment before she smiled again and asked the first question.

‘How have you been this week?’

Always that same opening gambit.

He shuffled slightly in his seat.

‘It’s been quite good.’

He knew that he was expected to say more, that she would sit patiently, quietly, until he did.

‘I’ve been keeping myself busy,’ he began. ‘Putting in some extra hours at work. We’re investigating a new case and that’s occupied my mind. I think that’s helped.’

‘Helped in what way?’ she asked.

He hesitated.

‘Well, it’s given me something to focus on, to distract myself . . . And I haven’t lost my temper with anyone this week . . .’ He smiled, looking up to find her staring at him impassively. How quickly she diverted him from what he’d planned to say.

‘I’ve been sleeping better too,’ he admitted.

‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘No unwanted dreams?’

‘None.’ That, at least, was a relief. Long hours, enforced by the dread of an empty house, were taking their toll. He looked up again, found her gaze on him.

‘Really,’ he shrugged. ‘No dreams at all.’

She nodded and gave a slight smile.

Light from the window behind illuminated her hair. She was wearing it down this week. He preferred it down. She had to be in her late thirties, early forties – close enough to his own age – an age when too many women embraced the lie that shorter hair would make them look younger.

‘As your sleep pattern improves, you’ll start to feel better, more in control,’ Jean assured him.

She was wearing the same tight sweater she’d had on the first time he’d come here. He remembered the disappointment when he’d initially noticed her wedding ring, the abstract resentment towards a husband he’d never met.

Someone for everyone . . . except him.

Still, it was probably better this way. He could hardly be honest with her if there was any possibility of them getting together . . . and if he couldn’t be honest with
her
, what was the point?

‘Have you been getting enough exercise?’ she asked.

‘Doesn’t it show?’ He made a joke out of it but they both knew she wouldn’t respond to questions, only answers. ‘I’ve been swimming. There’s a pool just down the road from the station. I went twice this week.’

In truth he’d enjoyed the water. Physically he was in good shape, not athletic but fit, with no excess weight on his six-foot-two frame. The exertion of lane swimming had helped to clear his head and leave him mentally calmer.

‘Very good,’ she nodded. ‘Regular exercise can be most beneficial to a person’s mood.’

‘It’s a good way to unwind after work,’ he agreed.

She sat back in her chair and regarded him thoughtfully.

‘So, you enjoyed work more this week?’ A leading question.

‘I’m not sure that “enjoyed” is the right word.’ Harland paused, remembering the eerie eagerness he’d felt as the case started to unfold in front of him. Nobody in their right mind would enjoy that. And yet . . .

‘It’s been a better week,’ he admitted.

She nodded very slightly. ‘How have you found things when dealing with your colleagues?’

‘That’s been fine.’

‘And what about . . .’ she glanced down at her notes ‘. . . what about Pope?’

He forced a thin smile.

‘No problems with DS Pope this week,’ he answered honestly.

No problems at all. The little shit was on holiday.

‘Okay.’ She studied him for a moment. He felt an uneasy sort of excitement, caught in her gaze, both worried and aroused by what she might see in his face.

‘So,’ she broke the spell, ‘no incidents at all since our last session?’

He looked away and sighed.

‘No incidents. But there was a moment this morning where I found it . . . hard to keep everything together.’

He glanced back to see her sit up a little in the chair – her ready-to-listen pose – then looked past her out of the window. He needed a cigarette.

‘Maybe you could tell me about it,’ she prompted.

He bowed his head.

‘Things have been relatively stable recently. It’s not that the feelings have
gone
– they’re never gone – but they were . . . less painful somehow.’

She nodded. ‘Go on . . .’

‘It felt . . .’ He frowned for a moment, struggling to clarify the intangible. ‘It felt as though I was sort of removed from it – as though it was
someone else’s
pain and I was watching it; sympathetic but not really part of it. And then I was interviewing a woman at Portishead, and something she said must have caught me off guard. All those emotions, all the pain . . . it all washed right over me, like the tide on that damned beach . . .’

He shook his head, the words becoming difficult.

‘And then it wasn’t distant any more,’ he continued. ‘It was happening to me again. I felt like I was right back . . .’

He paused, but she allowed him the moment. In his pocket, his fingers traced the edges of the cigarette packet. Just a few more minutes . . .

‘I was right back at the time when I lost her,’ he said at last.

Jean’s eyes held him for a long moment.

‘And what happened next?’ she said quietly.

He allowed himself to recall the crisis, experiencing yet again the crushing weight of loss, the chasm of despair opening up in front of him.

‘Graham?’

He focused on the room – the beige carpet beneath them, the badly painted skirting boards, the small table – dragging himself back from the darkness.

‘I managed to hold on, I suppose. Until the worst of it passed.’

‘And now?’

‘Now?’ He stared out of the window for a moment before meeting her gaze again. ‘Now I’m extremely tired.’

She looked at him thoughtfully for a time.

‘I think it’s encouraging that you were able to deal with the situation, and emerge from it in control. I think this shows real progress, that you’re growing stronger.’

‘Thanks,’ Harland shrugged.

But he didn’t feel strong – just the opposite. He wondered how much strength he had left.

Harland stared at the rain as it hit the windscreen, slowly melting his view of the car park into a shifting mosaic of indistinct shapes. With a relentless
tip tap
on the glass, one drop ran into another and began snaking down in long erratic trickles, new drops quickly falling to replace those that were lost. He leaned forward and switched off the engine, the sound of the rain swelling to fill the silence, then took his coffee from the drink-holder and warmed his palms on the cardboard cup.

It was strange for him to arrive at this time – he was usually early in, late out, stretching the hours away at both ends of the shift – but he wasn’t looking forward to work today. And unless Forensics came up with something significant, he had nothing good for his pointless daily report.

The hot coffee was burning his hands.

It had started so well – a challenging case to distract and occupy his mind, the opportunity to work with Mendel again – but now Blake’s interest meant it was becoming political. He had seen the signs already, but today . . . Today, things would be worse.

The pain in his hands was agonising, but he forced himself to wait.

Outside, the downpour continued. It wasn’t going to ease.

Slowly, he peeled his scalded palms away from the cup, supporting it between the tips of his fingers, breathing through the discomfort, mastering it. He could endure it. He could endure the coming hours.

Rain blew in as he opened the door and climbed out.

PC Gregg looked up as Harland stalked in.