Rush of Blood (26 page)

Mid-morning on Friday, Sue Dunning received a call from Marina Green.

‘I know it’s late notice and it’s probably a mad idea, but I was thinking we could make Saturday night into a Saturday night
and
Sunday morning thing. You could all stay over.’

‘Oh,’ Sue said.

‘There’s this fantastic greasy spoon round the corner which me and Dave go to all the time and they do the most amazing fry-up.
Not first thing or anything, I mean I’m sure we’ll have several bottles of wine to sleep off.’ Before Sue could say anything
else, Marina carried on. ‘Which is another thing. I mean everyone can have a drink Saturday night then, can’t they? What do
you think? Go on, it’ll be a laugh …’

‘Well, I’ll need to talk to Ed.’

‘I mean our place isn’t as big as yours, but we’ve got a spare room and a sofa-bed, so we can easily do it.’

‘He sometimes plays tennis on Sunday morning, that’s the only thing.’

‘Come on,’ Marina said. ‘Which sounds better? Running about on a tennis court or a late night piss-up and a full English …’

As soon as she had hung up, Sue called Angie Finnegan. She told her what Marina was suggesting. Sue said it was a bit late
in the day and even though Angie agreed, she still seemed quite excited by the idea.

‘So, what do you think?’ Angie asked. ‘Sounds like fun.’

‘Well, we won’t do it unless you do.’

‘I’ll see what Barry says. I’m sure the kids will be delighted to get rid of us for a night.’

‘I told her Ed might be playing tennis to give ourselves a get-out if he doesn’t fancy it.’

‘Just tell him you want to have a drink. I’m sure he won’t fancy being the designated driver!’

‘Well, maybe. I mean it’s the last one, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’ Angie asked.

‘Well, you know. We’ll all have done it once, kind of thing.’

‘So are we not going to carry on seeing each other?’

‘No … sorry, that didn’t come out very well.’ Sue struggled for a few seconds. ‘Just me being stupidly British about it all,
I suppose. Somebody invites you for dinner, so you have to invite them. That’s all I meant really.’

Angie laughed. ‘Well, we’re
Irish
, so you know … we don’t
need
an excuse for eating and drinking.’

‘Obviously we’ll stay in touch,’ Sue said.

‘If we do stay over, we’ll have lots more time to talk about you know what,’ Angie said.

‘That’s true.’

‘It was on the news again last night by the way. About halfway through, police still searching, you know. Did you see the
press conference thing the other day? God, those poor parents.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ Sue said.

‘Barry reckons it was the dad.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, you know. No smoke without fire, all that.’

Sue thought: now that really
is
British.

Jenny was standing on the pavement, looking at the front door, mobile pressed to her ear. Stupid, but she still got excited
hearing that single, long ringtone. Those few seconds of … somewhere else. The thought that her call was flashing off a satellite
somewhere, racing along wires or whatever from a dreary Berkshire market town all the way to the Florida sunshine.

She still hoped she might get the chance to go. If Samantha Gold was dead and the killer was caught and if it did turn out
to be the
same
killer, would there be two trials? One here, one over there? She wasn’t certain, but if all those things happened and it
turned out that she had played even the smallest part in catching the person responsible, then surely she would be asked to
give evidence.

She would stay on for a while afterwards, she had decided, try and see something of the place. Maybe someone would volunteer
to show her around …

Gardner answered on the third ring.

‘It’s Jenny Quinlan …’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your number programmed into my cell.’

It made her absurdly happy to hear him say that. ‘Listen, just to let
you know that none of these alibis are exactly gold-plated.’ She wedged her phone between chin and shoulder, flipped the pages
in her notebook. ‘Barry Finnegan’s doesn’t hold up because his brother says their meeting was all over by two o’clock. Crawley
to Sevenoaks is fifty minutes, an hour at the most, so he could easily have made it and his wife can’t vouch for where he
was the rest of the afternoon. Marina Green
is
vouching for Dave Cullen who claims he had the day off sick which is bloody convenient, but she would, wouldn’t she … so
that’s not what you’d call watertight either, and Ed Dunning freely admits to not being where he originally claimed to be.’

‘What about the other thing?’ Gardner asked. He sounded a little distracted. ‘The rape or whatever.’

‘I’m on it.’

A few minutes later, standing in front of the narrow, off-white door, she was still chiding herself for the stupid Americanism.
Would Gardner think she was taking the piss? Trying too hard …?

Annette Bailey was not what Jenny had expected.

Actually, she was unsure what she had expected, but the fact was that the woman at the door looked far older – Jenny quickly
did the maths in her head – than her forty-three years. She looked fifty-something, not much younger than Jenny’s mother.
She was wearing baggy, department store jeans and Crocs, a long blue cardigan over a pink patterned blouse. Her face was pale
and puffy and if she’d ever bothered she had long since stopped colouring the grey out of her hair.

Jenny introduced herself. Said, ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

She was invited in and followed the woman up a narrow staircase – junk mail piled neatly on a tread about halfway up – into
what appeared to be a one-bedroom flat. Annette Bailey walked straight into the living room and sat down, waited for Jenny
to take a seat opposite her, the two of them at right angles around a low, glass-topped table.

‘I had to sell the shop in the end,’ Annette said. She unscrewed the top from the small bottle of water she’d been holding
when she answered the door. ‘It was just me, and I’d had to take so much time
off after what happened and I couldn’t afford to take anyone else on.’ She took a swig. ‘I managed to hold on to the flat
though.’

Jenny looked around. There were three or four manuscripts of some sort piled up on the table. A copy of that day’s
Guardian
and an empty ashtray. Aside from the single armchair and two-seater sofa, there was only a small dining table and two chairs
against one wall; a smallish TV and DVD player in the corner, a couple of IKEA table lamps and rugs of various sizes scattered
across white-painted floorboards. There were half a dozen pictures in clip-frames on the walls. Paintings, Jenny noticed,
not prints, but either way, she did not think they were much good. Landscapes, sea and sunsets, that sort of stuff. Like the
kind of things they had in her doctor’s waiting room that she always suspected had been done by the doctor himself.

There was a distinct smell of marijuana.

‘It’s nice,’ she said.

Annette nodded at the floor. ‘They’re OK, the new people, not that they sell many books in there these days. It’s all handmade
cards and pottery, that sort of thing. I think they make more money with the coffee than anything else.’

‘Yeah, I was here a bit early,’ Jenny said. ‘I had one.’

‘A latte, was it?’ When Jenny nodded, the grimace of distaste was momentary, but clear enough. Perhaps Annette Bailey was
simply not a fan of the stuff, but for a few seconds Jenny found herself imagining that this woman somehow believed the nation’s
love affair with fancy coffee had played its own small part in bringing her to where she was. Negligible of course in comparison
to the event Jenny had come here to talk to her about. The man they had yet to mention.

‘So what do you do these days?’ Jenny asked.

Annette nodded towards the manuscripts. ‘I get paid to read. Not a lot, but it’s fine. New fiction for a few small publishers.
That, and some other bits and pieces. I live on my own, so it’s not like I need to be making a fortune.’ She raised the bottle
to her lips again. ‘I
am
seeing someone though. Not for very long, but it’s … nice.’

‘That’s good,’ Jenny said. Once again, she found herself reading
things into the woman’s words; an expression that suddenly was almost defiant, forbidding even the smallest shred of pity
before it dared to surface.

Yes, he fucked my life up, but he did
not
destroy me
.

‘I also volunteer at a refuge up the road,’ Annette said. ‘I man a helpline sometimes. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to
see you.’

‘I’m grateful that you did.’

‘So, what? Has he done it again?’

Jenny blinked. ‘He’s … someone we’re looking at in connection with a serious offence,’ she said.

Annette put the bottle on the table. ‘Well, you can stop looking.’

Jenny said, ‘Can you run me through what happened that night?’

‘It’s all in the file, isn’t it?’

Jenny said that it was.

‘Well, I stand by that statement. I’m not changing a single word of it, even though I was strongly advised by certain people
to do so at the time. Could I
maybe
think about taking out the stuff about fancying him and the amount I’d drunk?’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘Because it would have been a lie. I mean I was probably a bit stupid not to, looking back. Mind you, how long would he have
done, realistically? He’d probably be out by now anyway.’ She sat back, spat out a laugh. ‘He could have gone to prison back
then and still have done whatever it is you’re after him for now.’

‘Tell me what happened,’ Jenny said.

‘You know.’

‘I’ve read what you said then, but …’ She let the words tail away.

Annette took a few seconds, then began tugging at a loose thread on the arm of her chair. ‘We went out to a local pub. We
drank a bottle of wine and I asked him back here.’ She looked hard at Jenny. ‘Because I was horny and he was clearly interested,
fair enough? We opened another bottle when we got in, we smoked a joint and then at some point we started … you know. Ended
up in the bedroom.’ She nodded towards the hallway, a stripped wooden door on the far side of it. ‘In
there
…

‘We got into bed and started to … have sex. It was OK for a minute or two, maybe a bit longer, but then he got rough. It got
very … rough and it was hurting and I told him to stop. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me because he was making a lot of
noise, so I shouted. I told him to get off, that I wanted him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop.

‘He wouldn’t stop.’

She tore away the thread and balled it up into her fist. ‘That’s rape, isn’t it? Whatever I’d felt before, whatever I’d said
to him before. That’s
rape
…’

‘Yes, it is,’ Jenny said.

‘I think it’s because he was angry with me. I mean, I worked that much out afterwards, but I never said it in the statement.
By the time I’d sat down and thought about it, about why he’d been
so
angry, they’d already dropped the charges.’

Jenny nodded. ‘Rape’s always about anger. It’s never about sex.’

‘I know all that,’ Annette said, irritated suddenly. ‘I mean, he was angry because I wouldn’t go along with his stupid game.’

After a second or two, Jenny realised she was holding her breath. ‘What game?’

‘Some stupid fantasy … role-play thing. I told him straight off I didn’t want to. I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake, I mean
I’m happy to have fun, but this was just stupid. No, it was … creepy.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know if he actually wanted me to … dress up or anything and I mean, dress up in
what?
Like I’ve got a uniform hanging in the wardrobe or something. I think he just wanted me to play the part. Say the right
things.’

‘What things?’ Jenny asked. ‘What did he ask you to do?’

This time, the grimace of distaste stayed put. ‘He wanted me to be a schoolgirl.’

Jenny knew there was a protocol she should follow. There were basic rules of politeness, thank yous to be said. But all she
could think about was getting out of there as quickly as possible and calling Gardner again.

Angie thought that Barry was in a good mood. This was because each time he came into the bedroom, he talked back to the radio,
which was tuned in to some programme about the day’s football fixtures. He stood at the end of the bed and listened for a
minute or two, then muttered, ‘Bollocks,’ or ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ before wandering out again.

It was only eleven o’clock, something like that, but Angie was already packing their overnight bag. She carefully pushed her
toiletries to one end of the small case. She placed her make-up bag at the other, leaving plenty of room in the middle for
clothes.

She shouted to Barry. ‘I’ve put clean pants and socks in for the morning, all right? Tell me what shirt you want.’

‘I don’t know … the light blue?’

She collected the shirt from the wardrobe, folded it and put it into the case together with a choice of tops for herself.
There was plenty of room and she didn’t know what she’d fancy wearing the next day. Then she took out the new pyjamas she’d
bought from M&S, a red pair with cartoon monkeys on them. She stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the
wardrobe door and held the top up
against herself. She’d liked them in the shop, thought they were fun. She’d imagined that she would look good drinking tea
the next morning at Marina and Dave’s, but now she wasn’t sure.

‘What are you going to sleep in?’ she shouted.

She would look like a tomato on legs. A fat-arsed tomato.

Barry shouted back, ‘Why do I need to sleep in
anything?
’

Angie was excited about the evening ahead. It would be good to have a night away, a laugh with mates. She also hoped that
the change of scene might shake things up a bit in the bedroom. End the drought. Messing around under someone else’s roof
was a
bit
off, but it was … naughty and just the thought of it was causing her to flush a little.

Same colour as these stupid pyjamas, she thought, folding them.

Once or twice in the last few months, she’d suggested that they have a weekend away somewhere. A romantic break, though she
was careful not to call it that and always talked about the great food and the scenery instead. She fancied a little hotel
in Devon or Cornwall, somewhere like that, but Barry had never been keen. He always told her it was too far, there was too
much on at work, but she suspected it was because he knew it wasn’t really cream teas and sunsets she was looking forward
to.

‘Why can’t I sleep bollock-naked, like I always sleep?’ Barry had come in again, this time cradling a mug of tea.

‘Well, we might be walking around in the morning and you’ve got to look decent.’

‘So, I’ll get dressed.’ He held up his tea. ‘Kettle’s just boiled if you want one, by the way.’

‘I’m fine, love.’ She folded up a towel, watching him. She said, ‘You’re chirpy.’

‘Am I?’

‘You all right about going then, now?’

‘Long as we’re not the ones who end up with the sofa-bed. Bugger
that
.’

Angie laughed. ‘That all you’re concerned about?’

‘No. I’m also worried that this breakfast might not be as great as she says it is. I’ll be having words if there isn’t decent
black pudding …’

She could only put his good mood down to the fact that he wasn’t working today. That things – as far as he was telling her,
anyway – had eased off a little between him and his brother. Maybe he
was
looking forward to the evening ahead; a few drinks and something to eat and who knows, maybe he was even thinking about getting
those stupid red pyjamas off her later on. Whatever the reason, she was happy not to feel those eggshells under her feet.

‘That woman told me you said sorry to her.’ She put the towel into the case. ‘That copper.’

Barry looked down into his tea. ‘Yeah, well.’

‘Was that sorry because you were stroppy with her, or sorry because I had a go at you afterwards?’

‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘I told you I’d been on the internet, didn’t I? Found out about that girl.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Tonight going to be another
Crimewatch
special then, is it?’

‘Well, it’s big news.’

‘I don’t know about
big
.’

‘It’s the link though, isn’t it?’

‘They might already know.’

Angie felt a little deflated, but tried not to show it. She didn’t want his mood to change. She liked it when it was like
this, she didn’t mind him taking the piss. It was like when they first met and he would wind her up about the building work,
the things she was asking for, tell her she didn’t know her arse from her elbow.

She would tell the others what she’d found out anyway. She might even use Barry’s line. Here’s a Finnegan Crimewatch update,
sort of thing.

Make a joke of it.

She suddenly imagined Samantha Gold; vividly pictured her
grinning in a pair of silly red pyjamas. They were the sort of thing a girl like
that
would like, weren’t they, even at her age?

Childish things. Bears and glitter and sweet surprises.

‘Why don’t I put one of your polo shirts in?’ she said, as Barry walked out of the bedroom. ‘Gives you the choice then, doesn’t
it?’

Barry had started to learn that not
showing
your mood was the most important thing. A bad mood, anyway. You had to learn to hold it in, live with it for however long
and not show a thing until you got the chance to let it out safely.

Like disposing of dangerous chemicals.

He walked back downstairs, turned on the TV and settled down in front of
Football Focus
.

He sometimes thought that if he wasn’t such a fat bastard, sport might be the answer. He never got the chance to go to the
Emirates these days, but you could let off a lot of steam watching a match. At the ref, the players, the other team’s fans
obviously. Maybe he could even try and shift some weight and play a bit. Kick a few lumps out of somebody or other in the
local park of a Sunday morning.

Yeah, that would make him feel a lot better.

As it happened, he wasn’t dreading the evening ahead … the whole overnight business … quite as much as he had been when Angie
had first suggested it. He knew things might get a bit awkward, mind you, that Angie would most likely fancy it later on.
He’d just have to make sure he had a bit too much to drink, avoid a row. Even before the problems started, booze had always
successfully scuppered any downstairs business.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying, for crying out loud. Angie hadn’t been the only one on the internet lately. He’d been checking
out a few of those dodgy sites that sold Viagra, but he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to click that
buy
button. It felt like admitting you were past it, besides which you could never guarantee what you were getting, could you?
Not when one little blue pill looked much the same as another.

‘We need to leave some cash for Laura and Luke,’ Angie was shouting from upstairs. ‘Enough to order pizza. I’ve told them
they can have a couple of friends round as well, is that OK?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ he shouted back.

A night away from Angie’s kids though, that was worth having. He loved them, course he did; not quite like they were his own,
that would be stupid, but … enough. Lately though, the mouthing off and the liberties with money and lifts and all that, he’d
felt like swinging for them.

He thought about his son. He wondered how Nick would be spending his Saturday night. Hiding the moods, the blackest of them
at least, was bound to make relations a bit smoother with his ex-wife, wasn’t it?

Anything at all to make it easier, that had to be the way forward.

What were they called, those stupid bastards who dressed up as Spiderman or Batman or whatever and protested on roofs?

On TV they started talking about Division One, so he flicked the set off.

I mean really, what did they think making tits of themselves like that was going to achieve? Who the hell was ever going to
take that sort of carry-on seriously?

There were better ways to get your point across.