An Early Grave (9 page)

A fair point, thought Tara as she considered sharing some details of Callum Armour with her friend. Before she had the chance, her door buzzer sounded, long and deliberate.

‘That’ll be our darling Aisling,’ said Kate, taking a hefty gulp of wine.

‘Deep breaths,’ said Tara, making for the door.

‘Start without me?’ said Aisling, bounding in, dropping bags to the floor, clasping Tara by the arms and placing a smacking kiss on each cheek.

‘First drink of the day,’ said Tara.

‘That’s the God’s honest truth,’ Kate called from the balcony, holding her half empty glass aloft for Aisling to see.

‘Kate, be a love and pop down to the motor for me. I couldn’t manage the wine, not in these heels.’ Tara glanced at the shoes. ‘What do you think?’

‘They are high,’ said Tara, still gazing at the patent leather open-back shoes in black, orange and bronze.

‘It’s a wonder you can walk in them at all,’ said Kate. Aisling was not to be put off.

‘Alberto Guardiani, a snip at three hundred.’

‘You’re joking?’ said Kate, heading out the door and making for the lift. ‘More money than sense, Aisling luv.’

‘Have you been to work in those?’ Tara asked.

‘Bought them at lunchtime. I’ve been sitting at my desk all afternoon. But wait till you see what I’ve got for you. I think it’s perfect.’

When Kate re-appeared with two heavy looking carrier bags and clinking bottles, Tara was already modelling a purple satin dress, string shoulder straps, cinched at the waist and revealing lots of leg. Aisling beamed at her purchase.

‘What do you think, Kate? Our Tara won’t have any bother pulling them wearing this. Couldn’t resist it. All you need now is a decent pair of heels.’

‘You mean, like the shoes I got her?’ said Kate with a wide smile.

‘What are you pair up to?’ said Tara.

‘We both think you’re spending far too much time in black trousers,’ said Aisling. ‘You’ll turn into a fella if you’re not careful.’

Kate produced the taupe shoes with lofty heels, and Tara had little choice but to slip them on. The slim design complimented her tiny feet and slender ankles.

‘Kate, that’s far too much to spend on me. There’s no need. I’m not poor, you know.’

‘Don’t worry, they’re not Guardiani. Not that I didn’t see the perfect pair for you. We can go shopping tomorrow if you like?’

‘Thank you both, very much. I don’t deserve you two, really I don’t.’

‘Now you can impress that new man of yours,’ said Aisling.

‘What man?’ Tara was incredulous.

‘The one you couldn’t stop thinking about the other night.’

‘That was a case, Aisling. I was thinking about a case. He’s not my fella.’ Kate laughed. Tara wasn’t sure if she was laughing at her or at Aisling for being so presumptuous.

‘Worth a try, I suppose,’ said Aisling. ‘Time I had a drink.’

A couple of hours later the three of them sought a warmer refuge in the lounge after sitting on the balcony waiting in vain for the sun to appear from behind heavy clouds so they could watch it set. They’d eaten far too much and now were well on the way to achieving a balanced diet by drinking too much also.

Tara stopped the iPod before it finished a piece from the musical
Songs
for
a
New
World
. She lost a vote, two-to-one, in favour of a girlie flick, the choice already narrowed to
The
Holiday
or
Leap
Year
. Since she’d lost the vote, she let Kate and Aisling argue over it. Having placed her gifts carefully in her bedroom, Tara had earlier returned to the comfort of her shorts and vest. Aisling and Kate were brilliant; she loved them dearly, but would never have chosen such clothes for herself. She promised, with some reluctance, to wear them on their next night out.

‘Is it the same case?’ Kate asked as Tara, a movie chosen at last, slipped the disc into the player. Kate held aloft one of the Tilly Reason books.

‘Is what the same case?’

‘You told me that you bought the Tilly Reason books because they were connected to a case. Is it the same case you were thinking about the other night?’

‘Yes. No. Sort of.’

‘For goodness sake, Tara, pick one will you?’

For a brief moment they were back as teenagers in Tara’s bedroom at her parent’s house in Caldy. They were supposed to be revising French but, after a couple of minutes, Aisling started rambling on about Greg Downey, the guy to whom she most wanted to give her virginity. Kate laughed nervously at the thought, and threw Craig Reece into the mix. When Tara failed to contribute a boy’s name, the other two rhymed off a list from which she had to choose. Despite her reluctance, they never failed in getting Tara to reveal her teenage fantasy. She felt exactly the same feeling now as she decided it would do no harm and cause less fuss to relate the story of Callum Armour.

CHAPTER 13

He always thought of his father when he stood on the green. Midgey scampered about, working up to doing his business while Callum gazed across the expanse of grass, bordered on each side by the maze of houses that was Treadwater Estate.

‘It’s a lot safer for you in this part of the world, son,’ his father once said, a man, a former soldier, happy to be home in his native Liverpool. ‘None of that craziness that goes on in Belfast.’ His mother didn’t always agree that Liverpool was any better. She never regarded it as home, and pined for the Shankill Road until the day she died. It took a few years for Callum to shake off Belfast and assume the air of a Scouser.

The smell of mown grass mingled with the odour of damp but warm evening air after a shower of rain. He wore only a grey T-shirt, heavily stained with his staple diet of beans on toast, and jogging trousers that were the same pair he’d worn for weeks. He would have to wash and change soon, although the choice of clothes available in his sparse wardrobe was limited. Strange that he was even thinking such things, of being clean and looking tidy. Hadn’t thought that way for years, not since Tilly. Was he now thinking like that because of a policewoman?

His father was raised in Treadwater. He used to tell him about the time as a young boy, when he paraded around the streets with dozens of kids demanding the Council provide playing fields. Amazing to think that nearly fifty years on the housing estates remained separated by those fields, and that no one ever attempted to bury them under more houses. It left a more pleasing outlook. Since his return to Treadwater after Oxford, after Tilly, Callum had never felt safe living alone in the house, and yet only two hundred yards from there he felt perfectly at peace in the middle of the green at eleven-thirty at night.

A couple of fellow late night dog walkers strolled along the paths that sliced through the lawns, their dogs prancing around, sniffing the litter and mown grass. He came out here most nights, and most nights, while he waited for Midgey to get busy, he would stare longingly towards the house in which his father had been raised. His grandmother’s house, she long since dead. The place didn’t look as though it had changed in the sixty years since it was built. The playing fields, too, were holding their own, and yet so much had changed. People had moved on, grown up, married and raised children; parents and grandparents had passed. He wished he could grab a piece of now, even the tiniest piece and hold onto it for ever, tuck it away like a fossil in a shoe box, keep it unchanged. Daft, of course, because even if he could look at his piece of now everyday he would continue to change. He was changing, always changing. He wondered if that was the reason Tilly chose to write about time travel, to somehow have a fixed point, a point of reference in time around which she could build her story. Sooner or later though you would approach that fixed point, pass it by and disappear over the horizon. Turn back time; oh, how he longed to do just that.

Midgey ran on ahead. He’d finished for the night and, with a faint call from Callum, skipped over the grass, across the road and soon was tracing the narrow alleys, through the parking bays and making for home. Callum didn’t bother with a lead. His father had trained Midgey well. He came to the call; at nine years old, ancient in dog years, he was wise to traffic, and he didn’t chase other dogs or cats. Callum followed, over the road, into the alley, through the walkways by the houses and into the next alley. Hardly a breath; such a calm evening. He heard a yelp. A dog screeching in pain. He quickened his step. Midgey. A figure appeared to his left as he emerged from the alley into a parking bay. He turned to look. Heard another squeal. Something touched his neck. His body shook violently, pulsing. He hit the ground, his hands useless in breaking his fall. Still shaking, he felt confused that he couldn’t move to get up. He saw feet, two pair. One foot swung, and he felt a deep pain in his side. But his shaking didn’t stop. Laughter, a girl’s giggle. Still the yelping of some poor dog. He tried to rise again, but another foot swung, and his jaw smacked shut. Warm liquid spewed through his teeth, sprinkling the pavement with little dots. Another pain to his lower back and he collapsed once again. He felt the warmth of the ground on his cheek, and in the midst of his trembling, he felt the vibration of retreating steps, heard laughter, heard a dog yelping, heard laughter, footsteps fading, heard laughter, and he didn’t feel like moving. He could stay here forever. Had he captured his tiny piece of now?

CHAPTER 14

Aisling sat at one end of the sofa with Kate’s right foot on her lap. Carefully, with a steady hand, she brushed the deep violet liquid over the nail of Kate’s big toe. Tara had been done already, hands and feet a joyful pink. She’d told her friends about Tilly Reason and Callum’s theory on how his wife and daughter were killed. She did not tell them about her current investigation, the death of a Lithuanian girl called Audra. Aisling posed the first question.

‘Why has he involved you in all of this?’

Tara explained the connection with Latimer College, Oxford. From there she linked the murder of Peter Ramsey and the drowning in Switzerland of the Chinese scientist Zhou Jian.

‘Sounds like a real life Agatha Christie,’ said Kate.

‘Tara’s far too young to be Miss Marple,’ said Aisling, tapping Kate on her left foot to indicate that it now required nail varnish. Ignoring the quip, Tara continued with her story.

‘Callum believes that all the murders are connected to his student days.’

‘An old student with a grudge?’ said Kate.

‘One of his friends disappeared during their final year. Callum is convinced this guy has a score to settle with some or all of them. He’s living on his nerves at the moment. Between his thinking that Kingsley is out to get him, and the local roughs throwing bricks at his house every night, calling him a paedophile, I don’t think he ever gets a wink of sleep.’

‘What sort of people are you getting mixed up with?’ said Aisling, sounding concerned. ‘Surely you’re not paid to handle all that heartache. You’re not a social worker, Tara luv.’

Again Tara was not distracted from the telling of her story. She knew both girls would enjoy the next part.

‘Callum showed me a photograph of all his mates at Oxford. Apart from the three people who are dead, guess who is also in the picture?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ said Kate.

Tara and Kate watched Aisling as she thought the question through, both girls knowing that she would always rise to a challenge. Kate begged her to give in, but Aisling was determined to have a bash.

‘It’s either somebody famous or somebody we knew from school? Am I right?’

‘Well, I’m glad you’ve narrowed it down,’ said Kate.

‘Male or female?’

‘There you go; she’s just cut her odds in half.’

‘Both.’

‘What do you mean both?’ said Kate.

‘There are two of them. Husband and wife nowadays, but not back then.’

‘Georgina Maitland and what’s his face?’

‘How the hell did you know that?’ cried Tara. Kate roared with laughter. Luckily Aisling had momentarily ceased applying nail varnish as Kate threw her feet in the air.

‘I read something the other day, at the hairdressers, about Georgina Maitland being an Oxford graduate. I meant to ask if you knew her, Tara.’

‘Thousands of people have gone to Oxford, Aisling. I’m not mates with all of them, you know. Why say her name?’ Aisling shrugged indifference to the question.

‘That Georgina Maitland is some operator though,’ Aisling continued. ‘Last year she was the fourth or fifth highest earning woman in Britain. I was reading about how she does it, you know, how she goes about earning her money. Thought maybe I could get a few tips from her.’ Aisling placed her feet on the sofa so that Kate could take over nail varnishing duties. ‘Here’s how she does it. She finds a product, usually a fashion range, a make-up or perfume. Then she markets the hell out of it as an exclusive brand, supposedly expensive, the sort of thing only the celebs can afford. When she’s got loads of exposure, like in a major fashion show, or she’s paid a supermodel or actress to prance about in one of her frocks at a film premiere, she switches tack and makes the same product available on the high street.’

‘Sure, that’s what all the big fashion houses do. Bring out a cheaper version for the masses,’ said Kate.

‘No, this is exactly the same product but at high street prices.’

‘But she would lose on that deal,’ said Tara. ‘She couldn’t possibly afford to do that.’

‘She could if the original, so-called designer version was as cheap as chips to start with. All she did was stick a hefty price tag on it. The stuff is reasonable quality, it isn’t complete rubbish, but it certainly ain’t haute couture.’

‘But the celebs would kick up a stink if they sussed it?’ Kate argued.

‘Why? Their reputations are at stake, too. They’re not going to come out and say we’ve been wearing absolute tat to the Oscars. They’re going to say that Georgina Maitland produces high quality but affordable clothing. Besides, she doesn’t have to do it anymore. She’s made her name. Now she’s into health products, beauty treatments and luxury spa centres all at affordable prices. I saw her on a cookery programme the other night. She has a range of luxury foods coming out: breads, fruit compotes, yoghurts and breakfast cereals. Everything you need to start the day, according to the ads.’

Tara was grateful for the information, saved her half an hour on the internet.

‘And what do you know of her husband?’ she asked.

‘Anthony Egerton-whatsit?’

‘Egerton-Hyde.’

‘Complete tosser. Tory junior minister. Now what have the Tories ever done for us?’

‘Oh, please don’t start on the politics,’ said Kate. She was almost finished at Aisling’s slender feet.

‘So, Tara, are you going to sleep with this guy?’ Aisling sounded more serious than light-hearted. Tara glared at her friend, astonished by the question.

‘For goodness sake, Aisling. I’m trying to help him, that’s all. Besides, he is still a suspect in a murder investigation.’