Lemonade and Lies (16 page)

“Mum!
Mum
! Someone’s here to see you.” Millie was breathless and excited. “Guess who?”

I couldn’t. But I noticed that Tom hadn’t come out to the car to meet me, had hung back in the porch, a sulky look on his face.

“Evening miss. Any improvement in our patient?” Sergeant Patterson had been kind enough to collect the kids from school. Stay with them till I got back.

“He’s sleeping right now.” I didn’t want to give too much away in front of Millie. The man was still poorly. “Mum’s decided to stay overnight.”

“Och, that’s nice. I’ll be getting back to the station now. But I brought you a visitor. Says he’s a friend.”

I was confused. I’d only ever been to Maidens once before and I hadn’t made any friends that I could think of.

“Really?” I said.

“Yes,
really
. Least I hope we’re still friends,” said the man who suddenly appeared in the doorway. He looked relaxed and casual in the navy blue cords and sweatshirt, a smile like an idiot on his face. A face that was healthy and tanned and not at all ravaged as you might expect. Skin clear, eyes sparkling. He was no longer the thin, sad looking spectacle that I remembered. He’d put weight on. Been working out. It suited him. And so did the new haircut, shorter than the old one.

My head went into a spin. It was the shock. On top of so many other shocks.

“You’re not going to do your famous fainting bit again, are you?” He laughed, but held his hands out in front – just in case.

“I don’t always faint. And anyway this is a good shock, not a bad one.”

Andy Patterson headed towards his bike. “So
good
friends, is it? No need for me to introduce the expert from the Metropolitan Police Service to you then, miss.” He stressed the word expert. “The man’s a Sassenach and he’s here to show us all how they do it in New Scotland Yard.”

Jamie didn’t work in New Scotland Yard, but I got the idea. “Detective Inspector James McDonald,” said Patterson, introducing him anyway.

The visitor stretched his hand out towards me in a formal greeting. “My friends call me Jamie.”

“And what makes you think I might be one of those?” I said. But this time I laughed.

We’d finished dinner. Just the two of us. And now we were making inroads into the whisky stash. I’d fed and watered the kids earlier and sent them to bed. It hadn’t been a smooth process, for Tom had turned into the monster from the pit along with his sidekick Rupert who seemed to be working hand-in-glove to make things difficult for me.

I figured the sudden arrival of Jamie had something to do with it. At least on my son’s part and where he went, Rupert automatically followed. Millie on the other hand adored Jamie. I was slowly working around to that myself.

“Right, the time has come,” I said, trying to sound more sober than I was.

“Really?”

“No, not that. You’ve got a one-track, mucky mind.”

“That’s me. But have pity, for I’m only a man.”

“Sounds like an excuse.”

“So?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe later.” I nodded towards the ceiling. “Kids.”

“What then?”

“You promised you’d give me some background.”

“Sure you want to know?” he asked.

I wasn’t that keen to know now. It would probably kill the mood. But I figured if he was willing to tell me how Bill was mixed up in all this, and what it had to do with me, then I was due some sort of explanation.

I nodded.

“Remember the cartel?”

“Viktor’s chums?”

“Yeah. The cartel was born out of a shared greed and the herd instinct.”

“Strength in numbers.” I said.

“Exactly. But these guys aren’t altruists. You can still smile to someone’s face and stick a knife in his back.”

“Lovely!”

“And they’ve got rules.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Takes money to run the thing. Cartel members all pay the same percentage of their income into a central fund.”

“A bit like a mutual fund, eh?”

Jamie smiled at the thought. “You could say that. More of a tax thing. Opens up channels. Keeps the wheels greased. Payoffs to officials in different countries, money laundering expenses, pension fund for loyal employees.”

“Cute.”

“Yeah. But Kabak was holding out on them. Keeping another set of books. Probably brought in a bigger screw than the rest, and didn’t want to cough up his percentage. His bookkeeper was worried the cartel would find out and blame
him
, wipe him off their Christmas card list permanently.”

“You can see his point. So what did this bookkeeper do?”

“No idea. I guess he must have bought himself some kind of insurance. Copied something maybe. Can’t be sure. But one thing’s certain; he was batting outside his league.”

“How’s that?”

“Kabak smelled a rat. Lost faith in this guy of his and got your dearly beloved to go out there and sniff around with one of his geeky bean-counters and bingo. One bookkeeper vanishes and your Bill is suddenly on the run.”

“You think Bill actually killed somebody?” I thought about his temper and felt his fist going into my face again. And the way he’d been so quick to use his knife. But could he set out to murder someone?

“Maybe he didn’t, but he seems to have inherited some kind of evidence that makes him dynamite for Kabak.”

“And you know all this because . . .?”

He laughed. “I’m a policeman. It’s my job. It’s what I’m good at. Now what about you?”

“What about me what?”

“What will you do?”

I’d told him about my boss (or maybe soon to be ex-boss).

“Well, I can hardly abandon my mother. She needs me.”

The other two had already left for London. They were like an old married couple without the boring bits. But I wondered if it would last. David wasn’t a city guy and eventually he’d migrate to the nearest water. And Alice wasn’t a natural beach bunny. She needed to be part of big city life. I wished them both well, but even an optimist could see that it would take the negotiating skills of the United Nations to work that one out.

“How’s the old man?” asked Jamie.

“Stable. Funny word that.”

“Yeah.”

The silence turned awkward.

“You look good,” I said, groping for something neutral to say.

“Feel good. Look Jill, if there’s something you want to ask me – just do it. I know how it looked before.”

“Are you, you know . . .?”

“Still
using
?” He seemed embarrassed. “You didn’t see me at my best, eh?”

“No. But I understood.”

“I know. They told me what you did for me. I’m grateful – and no. I’m not using anymore. Got my life back.”

“I’m happy for you.” (
Happy
for you? What in God’s name was that?) Lame, lame, lame! Why couldn’t I come up with something more original? Something to show him how I truly felt. How much I fancied him right now.

“That all?”

He was a mind reader. No surprise there. He was a copper after all, used to sizing people up. Scratching below the surface.

“There might be more. But you know it’s . . .”

“Complicated?”

“That’s the one.” I laughed.

“That’s life for you.” He shifted restlessly in the overstuffed chair. “Still, complications can always be sorted. Two heads are better than one.”

“Are you offering?”

He grinned; the sort of mischievous look that I remembered. “My head’s fairly useful,” he said “but I’ve got other, more interesting bits.”

“You do?” He did! And I recalled a night in Oslo. And that was enough. I turned into silly-putty about to be moulded - and do some moulding of my own. And this time I had two perfectly serviceable arms. Imagine the damage I could do now. The thought made me shiver in expectation. I joined him in the high-backed chair, sat on his knee, moaned as his hands roamed over my body. Wondered if I’d be able to make it as far as a bed. Shamelessly considered making love on my parents’ parlour floor.

“I’m thirsty. I need a drink of squash.” The voice was reedy and wavering.

We both catapulted from the chair like thieves caught in the act.

“Tom. You should be in bed. And you mustn’t creep up on people like that,” I said, flustered.

“Why not?” he asked.

If he was somebody else’s kid, I’d have accused him of being morose. But he was mine, so he already had enough problems. “Because,” I said, “it’s not good manners.”

“Why were you sitting on his knee?”

Dear God. Was there no escape? “Because we’re friends,” I muttered.

“You don’t need any more friends,” my son said. “You’ve got us.”

*

My mother spent all her time at the hospital, so for a few weeks I was the only responsible adult in the household. Critics may quibble with the description, in the face of some of my past choices. And hands up - marrying that scumbag Bill hadn’t been my best day’s work. But I was proud of myself and the way I’d taken to my new routine. Ducks, water, and I, all had a bit in common. Something that came as a surprise.

I revelled in the school run and the chance to work my way back to a normal relationship with my kids. And a daily routine that didn’t involve going to work, or dodging punches from my ex-husband, was a novelty.

I took walks by myself, experimented with meals that were more interesting than macaroni cheese and had a few practice runs at dusting, but still wasn’t overjoyed by the idea of housework. As you know, I’m not one for putting on the Marigolds and diving into the washing up. I’m not like my mother. Not a natural homemaker. But I tried my best. And hey, we're all different.

And
I started writing again. Everything would have been perfect, except for one thing – a marked absence of Jamie McDonald. It was the only blight on an almost perfect existence. I was frightened to use the word perfect. For once you do, some bastard comes along and sticks a finger in your pie.

Jamie, I decided, was a sensitive guy. I knew he liked my kids and he instinctively understood the struggle Tom was going through.

He’d sent me a letter, scribbled on a page of a notebook. It wasn’t flowery, for his language owed more to a stilted police vocabulary than Shakespeare. But it hinted at his feelings, explained that he wouldn’t want to come between me and my children. I kept it under my pillow. It was the closest thing to a love-letter I’d ever had.

He was still in Ayrshire, a fact gleaned from the sage-like figure of Andy Patterson who felt it his duty to keep an eye on us and keep me updated with what he called the ongoing situation. I guess he figured I was the kind of person who attracted more than their fair share of mayhem.

D. I. Jamie McDonald had a lot of red tape to work his way through it seems, but he was tenacious and would get his man. His man was still hovering in that no-man’s land of coma and might even be brain damaged. I shuddered. I had no love for my ex, but the phrase conjured up images of vegetative states where people lost all that marked them out as human. Right now no one could say whether Bill Murdock’s condition would be temporary or permanent. People got better. Some didn’t. It was a lottery.

I thought about the legacy he’d left me. Okay, technically he wasn’t dead and whatever it was he’d hidden in the Mangle Board probably belonged to somebody else. Except of course there wasn’t anything. I’d spent ages pulling the thing about. Clamping it in my father’s worktop vice. Poking it. Prodding it. Holding it up to the light. I gave up thinking about it and went over to stir the soup.

“Can we take Rupert in with us to see Grandpappy?” asked Tom, making a noisy entrance through the back door. Tom never did anything quietly, or at normal speed. Rupert and he had a lot in common. The rush of cold air they brought with them into the scullery felt like it came straight off the Russian Tundra.

I looked over at the mutt, plastered in wet mud from his run, and dived for a towel drying on the rail of the Aga. Too late. Rupert didn’t like being wet and shook himself vigorously (this dog did everything vigorously) all over the scullery floor. Liquid mud went flying off him in every direction plastering the floor, the work tops, even making it as far as the pot of soup I had cooking on top of the Aga. We’d have to rethink lunch.

“Clean him up,” I ordered and scowled as I headed for what my mother called her utility cupboard. She kept the kitchen mop in there, a high tech looking thing that so far I’d only been tempted to use once. My mother had several other exotic looking cleaning implements in her arsenal for she’d run a clean ship as well as a tight one.

Tom was only making things worse. Just redistributing the mud.

“Take him outside the door,” I yelled. “I’ll put the hose on him.”

“It’s freezing out there. And the water’s cold. You’ll kill him,” my son accused dramatically. “You hate him don’t you? You’ve always hated him.”

“No, I don’t. But look at what he’s doing to Grandma’s kitchen.”

“It’s called a scullery,” he said.

“I don’t care what it’s flamin’-well called!” I screamed. “Just get him outside while I run a bath.”

Boy and dog waited outside the back door. I think they both got the idea that they’d pushed my good nature far enough. The dog was a shrewd operator. He probably came to the conclusion first.

“Okay, get in.” I finally ushered them through like a doorman, forcing back a smile, trying to stay angry. They’d ruined my soup and I’d been proud of it, a new recipe I was trying.

“And you . . .” Both boy and dog looked up at me. “No, you!” I pointed at my son’s feet. “Get those damn boots put in the boot rack. They’re lagged in mud.”

His expression was contrite. “Yes, Mum,” he said meekly.

I gave my smile free rein, despite the new (and huge) muddy paw marks now making their way from the kitchen stroke scullery all the way to the bathroom.

*

“Grandpappy, have you got any scars?”

Gruesome little brute, but that’s my boy.

“A massive great one. This big.” My father used the reach of both arms to demonstrate, like a fisherman describing the one that got away. Harry Webster had never liked being the centre of attention, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. I guess people can change.

He laughed and this time didn’t cough. So I figured he wasn’t just being stoic, but was really getting better. He was coming home next week and the kids had been busy making a huge welcome home banner that had almost taken over the parlour.

“We’re going Christmas shopping,” said Millie, trying to direct him away from her brother.

I think that’s the first time it hit me. Them vying for his attention like that. He was the father figure that had been missing from their lives for some time. It didn’t matter what I said about three being a good number for a family, four it seemed was better. All families were better off with both a male and female influence - provided of course that influence was positive, or at the very least, benign. No child should have to live in the shadow of cruelty and abuse.