The Last Voice You Hear (26 page)

‘There was a guy on the train,’ Zoë said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Take that look out your voice. He was a guy on the train, that’s all. But I bumped into him the following night, in town.’

‘In a bar?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you had a drink together.’

‘Don’t make it bigger than it is, Sarah. Yes, we had a drink. And yes, he took my number. Or looked it up, anyway.’

‘And you saw him again?’

‘We had another drink.’

‘I’d forgotten the delights of a girly chat. Zoë, this is like pulling teeth. Are you telling me you’ve found a sweetheart? Or you think he might be a serial killer?’

‘If he’s Talmadge,’ she said, ‘that’s what he does, right? He picks up women. Lonely women in their forties. With nobody else in their life.’

‘This is not you. That’s nobody I recognize, Zoë.’

‘So? It’s what the world sees. This man, Jay, he’s a good ten years younger than me. What was he after?’

‘You want me to spell it out?’

‘I brushed him off and he bounced right back. It’s not like I was real nice to him, Sarah. And it’s not like he’d have had much trouble, any other bar. Any other night.’

‘So, he liked you. It’s not that big a stretch, Zoë.’

‘Like Talmadge liked Caroline? And Victoria? If it was even the same man?’

‘Stop lining yourself up with them. You’re nobody’s idea of a victim.’

‘Reality check, Sarah. I’m not my idea of a victim, or yours. But people at large? I’m a single woman in my forties. Equals lonely, hurting, and desperate. Whether Jay’s a killer or not, he saw me as a target.’

‘Or he likes you.’

‘Or he likes a challenge.’

‘Met his match then, hasn’t he?’

‘Is this helping?’

‘Well, your colour’s up. That’s an improvement.’ Sarah leaned forward. Her eyes seemed larger of a sudden; were inescapable in this small room. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

She looked away.

‘Zoë?’

‘That’s the lot, Sarah. You know as much as I do.’

‘Uh-uh. Give.’

‘Nothing to give.’

‘Zoë . . .’

Any other scene, Zoë thought, there’d be a clock ticking. Something to underline the silence; to make sure each second shattered on the floor between them.

‘There’s a lump,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ said Sarah.

‘Doesn’t leave much to say, does it?’ Except for the statistics and the cheerleader stuff, which she trusted Sarah not to indulge in. ‘Left breast. About the size of a quail’s egg.’ Her voice sounded remarkably steady. ‘Well, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But it’s a bit bigger than a quail’s egg. I’m scared, Sarah.’

Sarah said, ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘. . . Do you know, that’s not the response I was expecting?’

‘It surprised me too.’ Sarah reached for Zoë’s hand. ‘Zoë, there’ve been times this last year, I’ve wondered whether you were ready to die. I mean, really.’

So there it was: that awful truth your best friends never tell you.
You look fat in that dress. The haircut’s shocking.
I’ve been wondering whether you’re ready to die.

She said, ‘That bad?’

‘It’s been . . . as if your life had stopped mattering. That you were just counting out time, and didn’t care where it was leading. So now you’re scared? That’s good, Zoë. That’s good.’

Zoë felt Sarah’s fingers link with hers and squeeze softly. For almost a minute they sat like that; Zoë wondering what it would take, these days, to make her weep.

‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘that when you take a life it wounds your soul.’

‘Yes,’ said Sarah softly.

‘He was an evil bastard. He’d have killed us. But taking a life wounds your soul.’

‘Yes.’

She freed her hand and reached under the bed for her tasteless cigarettes.

Sarah said, ‘Do you think –’

‘Don’t.’ She lit up. ‘The week I’ve had, not smoking would be dangerous and stupid. When I want a lecture, I’ll let you know.’

Sarah said, ‘Pardon me for being interrupted. But do you think I could have one of those?’

After a while Zoë said, ‘I can be a bitch.’

‘This is news?’

She passed Sarah the packet. ‘I expect you to enjoy that. It’s my last.’

They both smoked quietly, using the empty box as an ashtray. Blue tendrils rose to the ceiling, and wafted through the door.

Sarah said, ‘Do you think they’ll come looking?’

‘I would. If I was them.’

‘Well, then. Better plan a next move. Something public would be a good idea.’ She flattened what was left of her cigarette, stood, and stretched. ‘Are you starving?’

‘I’m getting there.’

‘You look shattered, too. Get some more sleep. When you’re awake, come over. Food’ll be ready.’

‘. . . I haven’t asked how things went in London.’

‘Yeah, right. We should talk about house prices too.’

‘Sarah?’

On her way out the door Sarah stopped, looked back.

Zoë said, ‘I didn’t come to you because you owe me help. You don’t owe me anything. I came to you for help because . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘. . . You know.’

‘Yes. I know.’

Zoë lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

Passing the ostrich pen, heading for the house, Sarah smiled – it was nice having solid evidence that Zoë was still in her life. A refugee in a shed didn’t make for an ideal reunion, but where Zoë was concerned, that was as good as it was going to get.

What had that cost her, anyway? –
I came to you for help
because . . . you know.

Halfway, she met Russell coming to meet her. He was frowning, and before she could ask why, he pointed at something up the lane.

Gwyneth trotted over, and went into lovestruck moron mode behind her fence.

‘. . . What’s up?’

‘I thought I saw somebody. A guy in a black jacket. Among the trees.’

She turned but saw nobody, black-jacketed or otherwise.

As they stood there, a car turned off the road and rolled down the lane towards them.

Chapter Six

The most dangerous room

i

The oven was double-fronted, and had a six-ring range, on one back ring of which sat the largest of Sarah’s Le Creusets – which lived here because it was too heavy to move; because she didn’t trust its weight to the overhead rod where the other pans hung. On another ring sat the kettle. Sarah was no traditionalist, but the electrics here were nothing you’d trust your life to. The one who seemed the leader – the one who moved gingerly as if, say, he’d lately been sideswiped by a car – nodded in its direction. ‘A cup of tea would be welcome.’

He wore a black beltless raincoat over a suit which looked slept in; a tie which he’d knotted in the dark.

‘Your ID says Met,’ said Sarah.

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘That happens sometimes. They call it hot pursuit.’

In the movies they did. She said, ‘Remind me of your name?’

He hesitated. Then said, ‘Burke. Detective Sergeant Burke.’

‘And . . .’

‘DC Maddock. And Sergeant Ross.’

Maddock was the one who’d held Zoë’s head underwater. He had red hair and washed-out eyes, which might have been something to do with Zoë, and was carrying a little weight. A rugby player heading for seed, was Sarah’s impression. For a one-word description, ‘policeman’ would fit. Ross was older; lately known as Tube-Man. His hair was a mess of tight greasy curls starting way back on his forehead, and a prominent vein in his forehead pulsed under Sarah’s gaze. But what really claimed the attention was the pirate-black eyepatch giving him the air of an oversized boy dressing up. That aside, he was old for a sergeant. When the others had proffered ID he’d hung back, waggling a pass-holder which might have contained his library ticket. Sarah had asked them in for fear of Zoë wandering from the shed while they loitered – that plus the worry they’d have come in anyway. There was no sense provoking an endgame before she’d tried talking her way out of this.

Russell said, ‘It must have been quite some pursuit.’

Don’t, she thought. Let me handle this. But how many men would have listened? Even sweet gentle Russell.

Ross looked about to answer. Burke got in first: ‘And you, sir, would be . . . ?’

‘Russell Cartwright. I live here.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I was wondering about this
hot pursuit
. Two thirds of you look like you need intensive care. Is the Met that stretched?’

Sarah said, ‘Why don’t you sit down. I was about to put the kettle on. I’m just back from London myself.’

‘Today?’

‘Yes. Russell, would you light the fire in the front? It’s turned a bit chilly.’

‘It’s not that –’

‘Please?’

They say lovers share unspoken thoughts, and Sarah was positively screaming hers.
Use the bloody phone.
He blinked, and got it.

‘Of course.’

Maddock stirred like a tree in a wind. ‘A real fire?’ Words spoken carefully, as if abrupt speech might wreck his balance. ‘I’m partial to a real fire, myself.’

Trying to squeeze brightness into his voice, like a man forcing his neck into a collar three sizes small.

Don’t, thought Sarah: a silent prayer that Russell would refrain from a smart answer.

He did. ‘Come through when the tea’s done. Five minutes. It’ll be roaring.’

‘My old man used to make a fire. I’ve always enjoyed watching it done.’

It was painful, matching dialogue to delivery.

Russell said, ‘Of course’ again. And this was better; a stranger wouldn’t have known he wasn’t delighted.

That was love too – finding new surprises in the loved one’s graces.

Sarah was left in her kitchen, with two strangers.

So this was what she’d returned to: the Zoë emergency. Sarah was no psychic, and had no time for frauds who were, but this was . . . not unexpected. It wasn’t so much that Zoë went looking for trouble, as that she’d not step aside from it if she thought she had right of way. So there was always going to be an emergency, and Sarah was where Zoë would run when she had nowhere else to go. Because however much Zoë fought it, they’d come through too much together to be anything but friends, and being Zoë’s friend didn’t mean offering her flowers or crockery or pretty pairs of shoes. It meant giving her a wall to put her back to, and standing next to her when she did.

Sarah wished she’d changed, though, once she’d got back. She’d have felt better in jeans. Especially if it came to flight.

Try to take charge, though. ‘He’s right, you know. You don’t look well. None of you.’

Aiming to keep it light. To give no hint that she knew where these wounds came from: which of Maddock’s thighs was punctured; why Burke moved as if he’d recently bounced off a moving car.

‘We had a bit of a jolt,’ said Burke at last. ‘Touch of black ice on a corner.’

‘No other vehicle involved,’ said Ross.

He had the voice she’d have invented for him if so required: a deep raw London rasp. As if he’d shouted himself rusty, practising these lines.

‘Late in the year for that,’ Sarah said. Then shut up:
let
them have their story. Fool.

‘Treacherous bastard stuff,’ he said. ‘Black ice.’

She turned away, so he wouldn’t notice he bothered her. ‘Don’t I know it. Some friends rolled their car last winter. Nearly killed themselves.’ Listen to her witter. She can do mindless chatter with the best of them. She set out cups; rattled the tin of teabags, as if gauging its contents before daring open it. All the while maintaining a stream of words: the weather, the neighbours, the trouble on the roads. Outside, the wedge of sky visible from the window screamed grey but calm, as if dangerous weather were a figment cooked up in the kitchen: the most dangerous room. The one where accidents happen.

‘Did you drive from London?’ Burke asked abruptly.

Sarah reined herself in. What did the innocent do when policemen called? They made tea, and asked questions. ‘Yes. And I wasn’t expecting company. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?’ And don’t say
hot pursuit
.

‘We’re looking for a woman, Ms Tucker.’ Burke was in charge of polite, evidently. ‘She’s wanted in connection with various offences. An old friend of yours. A Zoë Boehm.’

A
Zoë Boehm, Sarah thought, ridiculously. There’s more than one? ‘Offences? Zoë? I don’t think so.’

‘Well, that shows loyalty. But we need to speak to her.’

‘I wouldn’t mind speaking to her myself. Zoë’s not the best at keeping in touch. Tell me about these offences.’

‘I can’t do that. Ongoing investigation. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Well, that shows faith. But I don’t. Not remotely.’

‘Assault,’ said Ross. ‘On an officer of the law. In the execution of his duties.’

Sounds like Zoë. But she shook her head: ‘There’s been a mistake.’

Burke silenced Ross with a look. ‘Either way, we need to speak to her. When was the last time you saw her, Ms Tucker?’

‘Zoë? About two years ago. Yes, two at least.’

She heard a noise from the other room, but it was probably the normal sounds you got when one man was watching another light a fire.

‘That’s odd. I was under the impression you were close.’

‘I’m not sure why I figure in any of your impressions. But if it’s your business, which it’s not, yes, we’re friends. But long distance. We lead busy lives.’

Burke nodded. And these were the preliminaries, while he worked out his approach. Sarah hoped, whatever it turned out to be, Burke’s approach won the day. Ross was on edge, and looked like he favoured muscle. Having Zoë flip a coin in his eye hadn’t softened what couldn’t have been mild to start with.

. . . What bothered her mostly was, they’d given their real names. They were cops, yes: but. Sarah was no expert, but she read the papers. When a policeman was hurt he was bandaged up and photographed while his mates hit the road mob-handed. Wounded policemen didn’t drive cross-country, pursuing an arrest. And the way Burke hesitated when she’d made him repeat his name told her he knew what he’d done. Even his approach wasn’t a treat in store; just the best of available scenarios.

Ross said, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘I should have guessed. No ashtrays.’

‘Yes, well.’ She laughed, or tried. Even to her own ears, it sounded like a seal barking. ‘Not much point, really. As neither of us smoke.’

‘I see.’ He came nearer. There was something of the zoo about Ross; something best caged, and kept in darkness. ‘Only you smell like you’ve been smoking.’

‘. . . Do I?’

‘It hangs on the clothes, you know? What my ex used to say.’

‘I must have been somewhere smoky,’ said Sarah.

‘I thought you’d just driven back from London. And you not being a smoker, your car’s not gunna be smoky. Is it?’

She turned to the stove, where the kettle was reaching the boil. From the corner of her eye she thought she detected movement through the window, though it was hard to be sure: little was visible, above the whitewashed wall. Tussocks of grass hung over its edge. Sometimes, early summer mornings, she’d see rabbits balanced there, stretching for that grass as if food came sweeter with danger attached. The rabbits weren’t to know that Sarah presented no danger. She killed the gas. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You’re quite the detective, aren’t you, Sergeant Ross? It was Sergeant, right?’

He said, ‘Where is she?’

‘I’d have thought Inspector at least, with that little display. Got me bang to rights, haven’t you? Do they still say that? Bang to rights?’

Ross touched a finger to the eyepatch Sarah was sure was plastic. She had a vision of them pulling off a motorway to some desperate joke shop, plying frightwigs and comedy noses to the lost in need of laughter. And she wanted to tell him not to be such a
fucking
idiot, that he needed Casualty, that all three needed treatment. But she said nothing, because what she mostly was was frightened – they’d given their names; given their actual names. Without a seriously good plan to get out of this, they were leaving scorched earth in their wake.

‘Don’t tell Russell,’ she stage-whispered. ‘I had a fag in the car.’

‘Did you now.’

(It wasn’t a question.)

She lifted the kettle to fill the teapot. There ought to have been reassurance in this, the domestic heft of it, but it just added to the unreality, as if the kitchen were a stage set, and pouring water her next direction.

‘Maybe I’ll step outside then. That be okay? If I had a smoke outside?’

‘Help yourself.’

And now he was patting his pockets; one step up from a white-faced fool pretending he couldn’t find a door in an invisible wall.

‘Would you believe it?!’

She wouldn’t. She would.

‘Could have sworn I had a pack.’

She looked at Burke, but he was Quiet Cop: hands in pockets, studying April’s picture on the calendar.

‘But maybe you’d lend me one. In return for keeping quiet in front of your old man.’

Sarah put the lid on the teapot, and practised a sweet smile with her back to them. No. That wasn’t going to work. She turned it off, and turned around. ‘Well, I would.

But that was my last. Sorry.’

‘You’re sure about that.’

‘Very.’

‘Where is she?’

‘I buy packs of ten. I smoke one or two, and throw the rest away. Because if they’re around, I smoke them. You see?’

Burke said, ‘Is there a tray? I’ll carry that through for you.’

She looked at him blankly. Then caught up: this wasn’t a stage set; there was another room. Her Russell was there, with another of this crew; lighting a fire, so they could sit round it drinking tea.

She hoped to God Zoë stayed where she was.

Zoë decided to wander over to the house. She’d just woken – felt sluggish and logy from broken dozing – and a savage itch told her the handcuff hooped to her wrist was causing a rash. A sunlit circus of dust motes danced in the air. Anything might be happening, anywhere.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached for her shoes. This was such an effort, there must have been a significant alteration in gravity as she’d slept. Zoë felt loaded down by her recent past, as if forced to shoulder it in laundry bags; images of robbed and soaking men had soured her rest. And now she was awake proper her perspective adjusted, and the real threat hove to mind. She was under no illusion that Monday night’s escape was conclusive – these weren’t men you could hurt and assume they’d forget it. Regardless of their reasons for wanting her in the first place, she’d given them cause to hunt her down.

Her shoes, too, were uncooperative. Their laces confused her fingers.

For a moment she thought about lying down some more, but she was hungry. For the first time in a while, Zoë wanted food, above and beyond the necessity of it, and she wondered if this had to do with seeing Sarah, and being reminded of the simple deep connections that make up life: things like friendship and hunger. Once, she’d found these readily available, but that was before she’d killed a man.
It wounds the soul
, she’d said, and it was as if the words had been growing inside her; an alien growth she needed to expel. Ten minutes with Sarah, and Zoë had said a lot of things. Sometimes it was hard to know who you were supposed to be defending yourself from.

. . . But this achieved nothing. She finished her laces, stood, stretched. The agenda was the same as ever: survive. Protect Sarah and Russell too, which meant removing herself. It had not been wrong to come here – she’d had nowhere else to go – but now she had rested, would soon be fed, and it was time to plan her next move. Talmadge was on that agenda too. Her recent, accumulating history included Caroline and Victoria; Zoë had delved too far into their lives not to carry their load to the finishing line. She’d had a recent taste of how men pursued their interests. Alan Talmadge was next on her list.

She made her way to the open air.

‘Who’s that?’

They were in the sitting room: Sarah, Russell, three cops. The tea tray sat on the low table in front of the log-burner, which was blazing more fiercely than the day demanded; Sarah was wondering about opening the window. By which Maddock stood, looking out towards where the cars were parked on the gravelled expanse bordering the ostrich pen.