A Line of Blood (6 page)

‘It pretty much is.’

‘Looks scripted to me, Millicent.’

‘So kill me, I’m nervous,’ she said. ‘Also, a guy with a drill just fitted a lock to the neighbour’s front door. Which is more than a little disconcerting. Why would they feel the need to do that, Alex?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He just … I can’t believe he just …
went
like that.’ Her eyes clouded, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to cry.

‘London,’ I said.

‘Maybe so,’ she said. ‘Yeah. Maybe it’s London.’ She sighed. Then she drew herself together again and the sadness was gone. ‘How many words is two hours, Alex?’

‘Three words a second,’ I said. ‘Makes 180 words a minute, 10,800 words an hour. Call it 21,000 words. Minus commercial breaks, which are about a quarter of the programme. So 15,000 words.’

‘Huh,’ she said. ‘That is a
lot
of words.’

‘It isn’t,’ I said. ‘Not really. Where’s Max?’

‘He fixed his own breakfast and went to school.’

‘He seem OK to you?’

‘So far. And yeah, I’m watching him for signs.’

She went back to typing. My wife at her desk.

I tried to distract her by cupping her breasts in my hands. She looked up at me and smiled, continued typing while she held my gaze.

‘How do you do that?’ I said. ‘Without looking?’

‘Neat, huh?’ she said, and turned back to the screen, carried on typing. I kept my hands on her breasts.

‘It’s a conversation,’ I said. ‘You don’t need to prepare. They ring, they tell you their problem, you answer their questions.’

‘So I’m talking, what, half the time?’

‘Less,’ I said.

‘So, that’s what, 6,000 words?’

‘Forget the word count, Millicent. You can’t script this. And you can’t write 6,000 words in a day.’

‘I never did this before, and I am
super
-nervous. Also, it’s forbidden to swear. And to smoke in the studio.’

‘You’re allowed to be nervous. You won’t swear. People will call. The station will filter out the hostile callers. You will help people who need help. The station will pay you. You can smoke outside during the commercial breaks.’

‘You think? You really think all of that?’

‘And as soon as you’re in it, you’ll remember what you know.’

Self-Help for Cynics
. Millicent’s books had no truck with self-pity. They didn’t propose chanting, or detoxes, or relentless positivity as solutions to relationship breakdowns and bereavement. They were tough and funny, but had at their core an understanding of real emotional pain.

Make your play and move on
. Books for people like us, a generation of people who layer themselves in irony, people who would never be seen buying a self-help book because that would be
absurd
. Then, suddenly, the same eternal question: what to
do
? Or, as Millicent put it:

‘Which version of
you
are you planning to be, when you climb out the well you just filled with your shit? Sooner or later you’re going to have to swim to the top and drag yourself out. Make your play, and move on.’

Millicent’s cynicism, of course, was a well-constructed front. She could speak the language of the cynic, but she knew – and I know she still knows – that she’s an idealist to the core. She believes in love, and she believes that people are redeemed through loving each other. She could never allow herself to say as much – Millicent knows it would destroy the brand if she did – but
Self-Help for Cynics
worked because it was one bruised romantic talking to other bruised romantics, using the language of the disaffected.

People began to write to Millicent. ‘I don’t know why they’re thanking me,’ she said to me when the first letters had begun to arrive. ‘It’s pretty obvious. Get some sleep for Chrissakes. Consider not taking drugs. Go for a walk. Try to remember sex.’

Millicent had followed
Self-Help for Cynics
with
Adulthood for Cynics
and
Parenthood for Cynics
.
Bereavement for Cynics
won a minor award and got her invited to the Hay Festival;
Marriage for Cynics
had won a major award and was sold at the checkouts of upmarket supermarkets.

I took my hands from Millicent’s breasts, leaned against her chair. ‘I’m married to a brand,’ I said. ‘What more could a modern man want?’

‘I’m a moderately successful author. Of self-help books.’

‘You’re a brand,’ I said. ‘We can move to Crouch End.’

‘I make forty pence a copy. I’m on probation at the radio station. We can’t afford to move any time soon.’

She stood up from her chair, turned around, stretched, stood on the balls of her feet, yawned and kissed me.

I turned her around again, crossed my arms across her chest and slid a hand into her dressing gown, holding her very close. She leaned into me, asked me why I was so sweet to her.

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘And yet somehow you are.’

You see, I thought, she needs you too.

I sat at my computer. I logged four hours of city landscapes in ninety minutes. Maybe my workload was manageable. Maybe my work was just another logistical brick in our plan for Max. Maybe Millicent was right. Maybe this was no more than a scheduling problem.

At ten to eleven two police officers appeared on the other side of the street, watching our house. I put the man at around fifty, and the woman at thirty, maybe thirty-five. Dark suits, but definitely police. They looked different from the other officers we had met, but I couldn’t immediately say why. Something about their bearing.

I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt. Millicent splashed water across her face, came downstairs in a white linen dress that came halfway down her thigh.

‘Interesting choice,’ I said.

‘Too short?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘How do you dress for the police?’

She beckoned me downwards, reached up and did something to my hair.

‘I guess this is pretty much who we are,’ she said.

‘You ready?’

‘You’d better believe it, you handsome fuck.’ She held my hand in hers, and I could feel that she was trembling. She was trying to build me up. She was as nervous for me as I was.

I could hear the officers’ voices outside the front door now.

‘Are they, like … hovering creepily?’ Millicent’s voice was hushed now.

‘Looks like it,’ I said.

‘Do you think they …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘They heard nothing. You’re beautiful and poised, and they’re here to talk to me. And we have nothing – nothing – to hide.’

The man said something to the woman, and both laughed. How relaxed they sounded. How unlike us.

‘Yeah,’ said Millicent. ‘Easy to forget. I don’t like this at all, and it hasn’t even started.’

I opened the door barefoot: this is us at home, as we always are. But as soon as the door was open it felt like a mistake.

The two officers were as neat as we were wild of hair. Their eyes scanned us up and down, this straight-backed man and this straight-backed woman in their exquisitely tailored plain clothes. They were a little older than I had realised. She was forty perhaps; he was sixty. They were different in other ways, too, from the police we had met so far: their clothes were expensive and they carried themselves with a confidence that comes with high rank. I looked past them out into the street. Probably an unmarked car. Almost certainly something fancy and German. If Mr Ashani had seen them he would have guessed what they were about.

How did we read to them? Me in t-shirt and jeans; Millicent blowsy in her short linen dress. Both of us barefoot.
Parents.
It was eleven o’clock.

Could they come in, did I think?
No.
I looked round at Millicent.
No.
I turned back to them, looked down at my feet, laughed a self-conscious laugh.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’
No.

‘We could give you five minutes.’

‘No need,’ I said.

‘Right then.’

‘We don’t wear shoes in the house. But you are welcome to, of course.’

No reaction.

‘You have to understand,’ I said, ‘that we’re under quite a lot of stress.’

They handed me their business cards. They were detectives of some sort. I glanced at the cards and handed them to Millicent, instantly forgetting their ranks. Millicent would remember if necessary. Derek and June.

Now that I had gathered myself I was angry at the intrusion.

‘Coffee?’ I said. The woman shook her head.

‘No, thank you, Mr Mercer,’ said the older man. Derek.

‘Coffee, Millicent?’ I asked.

‘Coffee, Alex.’

In the kitchen I unscrewed the coffee-maker. Tapped the old grounds into the sink. Filled the reservoir with water from the tap. The detectives stood awkwardly, looking around, taking in the disarray of our lives. I put coffee into the little funnel, and screwed the coffee-maker back together. I lit the gas and set it on the hob.

Millicent sat down at the table, produced a packet of Marlboro and offered me one. I watched the she-detective, enjoyed her irritation as I nodded yes. June, she was called. I was short on sleep and long on caffeine and nicotine, in no mood to apologise for the mess.
Let them wait.

Millicent took a cigarette for herself and tossed the pack to me. I caught it, removed a cigarette, and lit it from the hob. Millicent lit hers from a lighter she’d found on the table, and we smoked silently as we waited for the coffee, owning the kitchen.

‘So,’ I said, ‘any idea how long this is likely to take?’

‘An hour. Possibly two,’ said the woman. ‘It depends what you tell me, Mr Mercer.’

‘I really should be working.’

‘I suggest you ring your employer.’

‘I’m working from home this week.’

‘Well, then.’

‘So,’ said Millicent. ‘You guys don’t need to speak to me, right?’

There was a long pause, and the detectives exchanged a look.

‘Actually, Ms Weitzman, there is something I’d like to discuss with you,’ said the man.
Derek.

‘OK.’

‘We can talk about it while my colleague is speaking to your husband.’

Millicent put out her cigarette, put her hand to her face, rubbed the bridge of her nose with her forefinger.

‘Sure.’ She gave a stiff little smile. ‘Shall we speak in the garden?’

‘That would be fine, Ms Weitzman.’

Millicent stood up and opened the back door.

‘Your coffee, Millicent,’ I said.

‘Oh. Sure. Thanks.’ She sent me that same stiff little smile.

I poured her a cup, poured one for myself. Millicent and Derek went out into the garden. She shut the door with great care. She didn’t once look at me.

‘What’s that about?’ I asked.

‘Just something we need to clear up with your wife, Mr Mercer.’

‘Alex.’

‘As you wish.’

‘But what do you have to clear up with Millicent?’

‘Your wife is at liberty to share the content of the discussion with you, Mr Mercer. As of course you are to share the content of
this
discussion with her. Now, perhaps we should both sit down.’

We sat facing each other across the kitchen table. I felt a sudden urge to apologise for our mess, to make some excuse for the rudeness we had just shown. It’s not you, I wanted to say. We’re all just a little freaked out at the moment.

We’re not bad people.

We’re good parents.

But that would only make me look weak now, and besides, it would change nothing.

‘So, Mr Mercer, you understand why we’re here?’

‘The suicide of our next-door neighbour.’

‘It certainly could be a suicide.’

‘Could be?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind, Mr Mercer. Now, before we go any further, I should say that we are aware that the experience of finding a body can be a traumatic one. We can arrange counselling if you should at any time find it necessary.’

‘It’s my son I’m worried about. This is tough on him.’

A patient smile. ‘I understand. But I’m also required to say that should
you
at any point require help in regard to what you have experienced, then we can assist you in arranging that help, either without cost or for a nominal fee. These things are tough on adults too.’

Since when were the police all pinstripes and counselling? I looked out of the window, but couldn’t see Millicent and the he-detective. Probably sitting down. On the love seat, I thought, and found the thought darkly funny. Millicent would be suffering spasms of social agony. She hated encounters with authority figures, especially authority figures with English accents.

‘Now then.’ The detective produced a small voice recorder and placed it on the table. ‘May I?’ Yellow-grey eyes, keen and unyielding.

I nodded. She pressed the record button, and told the machine where she was, and who she was talking to. Then she turned to look at me.

‘I should just say here at the start that you are by no means a suspect at the current time.’

‘At the current time? What are you saying?’

‘That you are not a suspect.’

‘You had me worried.’

This time there was more understanding in her smile.

‘We appreciate that the form of wording we use can seem vague. I hope you understand why we have to speak in these terms.’

‘Sure. Sorry.’

‘I need to start by asking you a little about your professional life, Mr Mercer.’

‘I’m a TV producer.’

‘And you work for?’

‘Myself.’

‘And what does that involve?’

‘It used to be said that you employed everyone else on set.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Now I pretty much just do what I’m told,’ I said.

These were her warm-up questions; my answers didn’t matter. She was establishing a pattern of question-and-answer, she was making it clear that she was in control.

‘I interview people on camera, so I know how this bit of your job feels.’ I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. She wasn’t trying to establish a rapport with me.

‘Do you have any imminent travel plans?’

‘I plan the shooting, and the editing. I have responsibility for the budget.’