Honeycote (39 page)

19

After Lucy had gone, Mickey sat shell-shocked in the kitchen for hours, not daring to move in case his feelings kicked in. He knew that he’d got no one to blame but himself. Here he was, alone and abandoned by everyone – even Pokey had slunk off to hide somewhere. He was surprised Lucy had left her here in his care. It was obvious she didn’t think Mickey capable of so much as looking after a dog. Which he wasn’t – he tried to remember the last time he’d fed her and couldn’t.

Eventually he summoned up the energy to go out into the scullery to find a tin of food, and found the shelf empty. He rummaged about in a cupboard for some back-up supplies. Success – there was a sack of dried food, which he could mix with some gravy browning or something. He’d go to the Spar and get some tins later. Lifting out the sack, he spied a box of bottles. He pulled it towards him and inspected the contents. Six bottles of damson gin, 1998. Manna from heaven.

The cork came out with a satisfying squeak. The pale ruby liquid slid in a viscous stream into his glass. Thick, syrupy, bitter-sweet nectar trickled down Mickey’s throat, his first drink for what seemed like months, though it was barely two days. It wasn’t long before Caroline’s imaginary taunts were blocked out by its anaesthetizing effects. So what if he had no willpower? So what if he was weak? There was no point in trying to be strong. He’d lost his wife, to his own brother, and he was pretty likely to lose his livelihood. He’d lost all enthusiasm for the plans he and Caroline had drawn up together; couldn’t face the prospect of entering into a spirit of co-operation with Cowley. He’d got no fight left in him because there was nothing worth fighting for. He couldn’t pretend any longer. Better that everyone knew what a failure he was. In a way, Mickey thought, it would be best for everyone if he just set a match to the whole thing.

Ten seconds later he sat bolt upright. That wasn’t such a bad idea. In fact, it was the best solution he’d come up with so far. A bloody insurance job – why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Mickey rewarded himself with another two inches of damson gin while he thought through the implications. Surely torching the brewery was just a form of euthanasia? Hastening its inevitable demise; avoiding the agony of the death throes, the pain of making decisions that had been forced upon him. This way was quick and clean. The brewery would be gone; it would cost too much to build a replacement that was compliant with the twenty-first century. But Honeycote Ales could live on. The beer could be brewed under licence to the original recipe by one of the larger breweries; it was pretty commonplace in the industry. The tied houses could carry on. No one would know any different…

Except, of course, the twenty-odd people he employed. An image of them pricked at his conscience for a moment, but then he asked himself if, realistically, any of them would show him any loyalty if they were given a better offer. One or two ageing retainers, perhaps, but he could keep them on in some capacity somewhere to salve his conscience. But the others… Mickey was pretty sure most of them would find gainful employment elsewhere. He’d pull strings, dish out glowing references. And anyway, morale was plummeting. You could see that every day – uncertainty and dissatisfaction. They’d all probably be grateful for the chance to move on.

Trouble was, he wasn’t entirely sure how to start a fire. One that wouldn’t look suspicious, at any rate. They’d have forensic scientists crawling over the scene of the crime before you could say Bryant and May. How could he make it look like an accident? He supposed there were people you could pay to do that sort of thing for you, but this was Honeycote, not the East End of London. And Mickey thought that the less people knew about it the better. He didn’t want to leave himself open to blackmail, after all. He wanted a stress-free life, a chance to start afresh with a clear(ish) conscience.

Mickey gave the practicalities of the task some careful thought over another inch of damson gin. He was pleased with his final solution. He’d force an entry into one of the downstairs storerooms. Leave a few cans of Diamond White and a few Embassy fag ends lying around. Perhaps some condoms for good measure – or perhaps not. He didn’t fancy procuring those. But if he left traces of adolescent detritus in one of the storerooms, make it look as if they’d broken in for somewhere to den up and have a bit of a party, then a fire might be a logical conclusion. He’d go down to the bus shelter in the village, pick up some evidence. Then it would all look like a party that had got out of hand, the kids would have scarpered. And he’d have a nice fat cheque and a chance to start afresh without anyone knowing.

He’d seen
Inspector Morse
often enough to remember to cover his tracks and prepare an alibi. He shoved a blank tape in the video machine and recorded whatever was on. He could slip back home, rewind it and watch it to give himself an alibi – it was the best he could do without involving anyone else. He also remembered to put a pair of gloves on, then went out to find the Defender. He remembered Patrick had it. Oh well – he’d have to borrow the Healey. He’d enjoyed driving it, on the one or two occasions that Patrick had let him get his hands on his precious motor car.

Mickey fished about in Patrick’s bedroom until he found the keys in his flying jacket, then drove down into the village. He parked up behind the post office, then made his way as inconspicuously as he could down to the bus shelter. There were plenty of fag ends lying around. Even, miraculously, a single Man United glove – he could leave that somewhere at the scene of the crime. He scooped the butts up into a carrier bag, then peered into the bin. He fished out a couple of pop cans, but could see no alcohol. He’d have to go further afield. He couldn’t pull into one of his own pubs for fear of being recognized and remembered.

For someone who was totally sloshed he was covering his tracks remarkably well. Mickey slugged at the nearly empty bottle as he drove back up through the village towards the brewery. Then he realized the one weak spot in his plan. Matches. Fucking matches! He leaned over to the glove compartment and fished about, triumphantly laying his hands upon a stray lighter.

It was only when a lorry came thundering round the corner that Mickey noticed he was on the wrong side of the road and swerved.

The whirring of a helicopter overhead woke Lucy just before midnight. She sat up with a sudden start, her heart racing. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she was, then reality started to filter its way into her brain, no longer obscured by an alcohol-soaked cushion. She was in bed with James. All of a sudden she felt filled with panic. What on earth had she done? For a moment she hoped that perhaps the whole thing had been a dream, but one look at James asleep beside her told her the truth. Anyway, the room smelled of her perfume and his cologne, rose and bergamot inextricably mingled with their combined sweat. Red-hot remorse welled up inside her and caught at her throat.

Lucy crept out of the bed and into the bathroom, where she surveyed her reflection in the mirror, thinking about what she’d done. Would she look any different to an outsider? Did she look like a wanton adulteress? She certainly felt like one – she could see exactly where the expression ‘scarlet woman’ came from. She was blushing with shame, red with guilt, her betrayal glowing like a beacon. She couldn’t even look her own reflection in the eye. It made her feel sick. She gripped the porcelain of the sink, trying to keep the nausea down, but it was no good. She threw up brandy and champagne and bile; luminous, yellow bile that proved she was filled with poison.

She scrubbed and scrubbed at her teeth, and washed her face and hands. She thought about having a shower, but she didn’t want to wake James. She put down the loo seat and sat with her head in her hands. It was throbbing, whether from the stress of the day or a surfeit of alcohol or a mixture of both she didn’t know.

Post-coital triste wasn’t the word for it. Lucy felt positively suicidal. Just for a moment, she’d enjoyed the luxury of being worshipped and pampered. It was pure indulgence, an utterly selfish revenge fuck, and the only person who was really going to suffer in the long term was James. She could see now just how easy it was to be unfaithful, in that moment of insecurity when you needed to be reassured. It was the ultimate displacement activity: after all, making love to James in front of a roaring log fire had been a far more inviting proposition than going over her confrontation with Mickey, analysing the implications and having to make some sort of decision about the next step. Yes, infidelity was certainly an enjoyable distraction. At the time, the emotions it awoke were more powerful and pleasurable than any other and over-rode anxieties. But screwing James really wasn’t the answer to her problems. On the contrary, it had created yet another one.

Because she couldn’t carry this charade on. She liked James. Loved him, even, as one did love members of one’s family. And she was surprised at how much she’d enjoyed sex with him. But now, in the cold chill of the bathroom, she realized that she’d over-romanticized the success of their coupling. She should know that whatever James did, he always did it to perfection, whether it was decorating or cooking or making love.

For one moment, she toyed with the idea of stepping away from life at Honeycote and into James’s life, for she knew without him saying it that he would welcome her. It would be like falling out of the frying pan into the feather bed. In her mind, James could provide everything she needed, practically. He was attractive, wealthy, a good friend, they had everything in common – almost more, in fact, than she had in common with Mickey. It was with James that Lucy pored over catalogues for the country house sales they both loved to frequent; it was James who often went with her to the concerts in Gloucester cathedral that brought a lump to her throat.

But she knew it was Mickey she belonged with. Mickey who was the flint that lit the spark inside her. For heaven’s sake, she’d know that years ago, when she’d first met the two brothers. She’d made her choice then. She’d known she could have had either of them. But it was Mickey who excited her, fascinated her, whose unpredictability and unreliability made him more exasperating yet more lovable. And vulnerable. She was surprised when this occurred to her: that actually James wasn’t vulnerable at all. He had a ruthless streak she’d seen him use in business that she felt sure he’d be capable of using in his personal life. And when she thought about it, he had. He was quite capable of culling girlfriends when they got too needy, too clingy, too close. She’d mopped up their tears on more than one occasion. This realization made her think of Caroline. He’d made it quite clear to her that she was expendable and hadn’t done much to spare her feelings. The memory now made Lucy cringe. She’d been too wrapped up in her own problems at the time to care. But she could see now that James had been utterly ruthless.

Mickey wasn’t ruthless. He was just weak.

How could she turn her back in a fit of pique on Mickey, on Honeycote, on her family and on the brewery just because of a single indiscretion? Especially when she hadn’t even waited for an explanation for the wrong she’d been done. How could she possibly defend her actions, if she hadn’t even allowed Mickey to defend his? She hadn’t meant to be so savage with him. She couldn’t get the image of his shell-shocked face as she’d fled Honeycote out of her mind. She hadn’t given him any chance to explain. No, she’d fled into the arms of the one man she knew loved her unconditionally, because she hadn’t wanted the truth; she’d wanted to be protected. She was a coward, without the strength to face her demons.

She was an adult, she had responsibilities and whatever cards she had been dealt she had to play them, not just walk away. She could find the strength from somewhere, she was sure. There was too much to lose.

In the meantime, what should she tell James? She cursed herself. It would have been so much easier if she hadn’t slept with him. Now she’d compromised herself. How best to let him down gently? And had she used him? Did she have to apologize for that, or was he to blame? Had he taken advantage of her vulnerability?

She was shivering now with the cold. She crept back across the carpet and slid under the warmth of the blankets. Next to her, James stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes. He smiled and reached out an arm to curl round her before falling back into a contented reverie. Lucy flinched at his touch; his arm was like lead, trapping her, pinning her down. James sat up.

‘What is it?’

Lucy turned to face him, stricken.

‘James – ’

But before she could reveal her innermost thoughts, the shrill bell of the telephone on the bedside table cut through the moment. He didn’t know which way to turn. Either way was bad news. He had a pretty good idea from the expression on her face what Lucy was going to say, so he picked up the phone decisively.

‘James Liddiard.’

It was the hospital. Mickey Liddiard was in intensive care. He was about to go down to surgery. Did he have any idea how they could contact his wife?

20

James sped through the dark lanes of Gloucestershire then Oxfordshire with tight lips. Lucy sat miserable and dry-eyed beside him. He thanked God he hadn’t had too much to drink – he’d deliberately held back on the champagne, pouring the lion’s share down her throat. They didn’t speak, except to confer on directions, just sat in surreal silence.

They arrived at the hospital and were ushered with haste through miles of corridor until they were shown into a waiting room. A consultant came in and spoke gently to Lucy as James held her hand. She couldn’t take it all in, just key words that hit her in the gut – haemorrhage, blood clot, coma, unconscious, brain scan. They were all theoretical fears, but James had to admit to himself that it didn’t sound good, even though the consultant kept reiterating that Mickey was in the best place. He’d been airlifted to hospital, apparently. The lorry driver he’d just missed before he crashed into the wall had recognized that this was a job for the air ambulance and had been pretty insistent on his mobile phone, which had certainly improved Mickey’s chances. The bottom line was he had serious head injuries that needed checking out before they proceeded any further. The fact that his right leg was smashed to smithereens was secondary. He was going to have to undergo at least two operations.