Bleed for Me (39 page)

Anger flares in her eyes. ‘For starters - I’m
not
taking my orders from you!’

It comes out in a hiss. Pale lumpy faces turn from the TV. Cray pivots forward on her elbows.

‘This trial has been a circus. It’s cost mil ions. I’m not just talking about crowd control and protecting witnesses. If it col apses there’l be an absolute shit-storm and I want more than just a few photographs before I light that fuse.’

She col ects the prints. Straightens the edges. Turns them face down. Already I can see her mind calculating her next move. She’s going to either stake out the Royal Hotel or seal it off and send in a SOCO team looking for fingerprints and DNA.

She glances at the red neon clock glowing above the bar: 11.46. It could be a.m. or p.m.

‘What about Sienna?’

‘We col ected her from hospital at nine o’clock this morning. She’s being interviewed now.’

The DCI raises her cup again, balancing it between the fingers of both hands. Her tea has grown cold.

‘Ray Hegarty was a good copper. Maybe he was a lousy father. If that girl kil ed him, she’l face a jury. Right now I’m giving her the benefit.’

43

A buzzer sounds, echoing in the night air, encouraging the audience indoors where students are acting as ushers and handing out programmes. The curtains are closed in the auditorium but occasional y the fabric bulges with movement and a face peers through a gap, bright-eyed, excited.

The band are tuning instruments and whispering to each other, while Gordon El is moves in the glow of the footlights, issuing last-minute instructions and calming first-night nerves. His face is stil swol en, with one eye almost closed, but he’s wearing dark glasses and stage make-up to hide the damage.

I shouldn’t be here. According to the protection order, I can’t go within a thousand yards of El is or his wife. But I’m not missing Charlie’s big night and I’m not letting that bastard be alone with her.

Peering around a pil ar, I can see Julianne in conversation with Harry Veitch. Laughing. Emma is in between them, but keeps crawling on to Julianne’s lap to get a better view. I wonder if Julianne realises that Harry has a lumpy head from this angle. Big
and
lumpy.

The lights are dimming. Voices fade to silence. The band strikes up and the curtain sweeps aside, rattling on rails. The entire cast appears, marching back and forth across the stage, dressed as commuters on a busy New York street. Mil ie, the smal -town girl from Kansas, has arrived in Manhattan.

Although I don’t miss a moment of Charlie on stage, the show seems strangely muted compared to the rehearsal I watched three weeks ago. The music and staging are the same, but it doesn’t have the same energy or excitement. Maybe Sienna is the missing ingredient.

Nobody else seems to notice. There is a standing ovation and three curtain cal s. Two girls drag a reluctant director into the spotlight, tugging at his arms. Reaching the front of the stage, Gordon El is bows theatrical y, touching the floor with his fingertips, before rising again with his arms outstretched, ushering the cast to join him in another bow. He puts his arms around the nearest two girls. Charlie is one of them. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat.

The curtain slides closed. The auditorium lights come up.

Outside, stepping clear, I look for Julianne. She’s chatting to some of the other mothers. Harry is hovering, looking for someone to talk to. I try to avoid his gaze but he’s seen me.

‘What a show, eh? Utterly bril iant.’

He’s wearing boating shoes and one of those thermal skiing vests that zip up to his throat.

‘It started as a film, you know.’

‘What did?’ I ask.

‘
Thoroughly Modern Millie
. Julie Andrews played the lead. It also had Mary Tyler Moore in it. It was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won best musical score.’

I should have guessed - Harry is an expert on Hollywood musicals.

‘The score was written by Elmer Bernstein, not to be confused with Leonard Bernstein - they weren’t even related, but they were given nicknames on Broadway. One of them was West Bernstein and the other East Bernstein.’

Harry laughs.

Maybe he’s gay.

Having finished his anecdote, he smiles at me. Apparently it’s my turn to add something to the conversation but I can’t think of anything to say. After a long pause he suggests that we should play a round of golf some time. I could come to his club.

‘I don’t play golf,’ I remind him.

‘Of course. Tennis?’

‘Not much these days.’

Harry tugs at his earlobe. After another long silence he closes the gap between us and whispers, ‘Do you think the two of us can ever finish up being friends?’

He asks the question so earnestly I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

‘I don’t think so, Harry.’

‘Why’s that, do you think?’

‘Because al we have in common is Julianne and eventual y, if we become friends, you’l feel it’s al right to talk about her with me and it’s one thing to lose her and another thing completely to discuss her like she’s a shared interest.’

Harry tugs harder at his earlobe. ‘You made her very sad, you know.’

‘I also made her happy for twenty years.’

‘I guess people change.’

Jesus wept!

‘I’m going to try to make her happy,’ he announces.

I can feel my arm hairs prickle and a chil run down my spine. Irrespective of his size and physical condition, I want to hit Harry now. I seem to be developing a taste for it.

‘I don’t want there to be any il -feeling,’ he says, completely ignoring al the signs, my body language, my tone of voice, my fingers curling into fists. Then he mentions something about not treading on toes and there being no winners or losers.

A guttural sound springs from my throat.

‘Pardon?’ he asks.

‘I said that’s bul shit.’

‘Oh!’

His eyes widen.

‘Let’s face it Harry, you don’t give a flying fuck about my toes or my feelings.’ I’m talking through gritted teeth, trying not to attract attention. ‘You like trophies. You have a trophy house ful of trophy cabinets ful of your golf trophies and your squash trophies and your framed thank you letter from Margaret Thatcher for donating to the cause. Now you want my wife.’

Harry blinks at me, completely lost for words. The colour rises from his neck to his face. I want to go on. It takes every bit of my wil power to stop saying what I want to say. I want to tel him that he’s not Frank Lloyd Wright or Norman Foster and that designing some telemarketing mil ionaire’s ski chalet at Val d’Isere is not going to get him a knighthood, just like pul ing his trousers up high doesn’t make him look thinner and gel ing his hair doesn’t make him look younger and the chunky silver bracelet is gangster chic rather than evidence that he’s comfortable wearing jewel ery.

I want to tel him these things but I don’t, because I’m not even interested in hating Harry the way I should. I’m not truly angry. I’m sad and I’m lonely and I’m fed up with not being able to help people who need me.

Julianne appears beside him.

‘Wasn’t that terrific?’

‘Bril iant,’ I reply.

Emma lets go of her hand and comes to me.

‘I wonder what happened to Annie Robinson,’ says Julianne, looking at me. ‘She did al the sets and costumes and didn’t turn up.’

‘Maybe she had something more important,’ I say, but I can’t convince myself.

‘Charlie is going to the cast party.’

‘Wil Gordon El is be there?’

‘It’s just for the kids. One of the mothers is getting them pizza. Can you pick her up later?’

She gives me the address. ‘I told her eleven o’clock. I know she’s supposed to be grounded, but she was so good tonight and I don’t have the heart to play the bad cop on this one.’

‘I wanna go with Daddy,’ announces Emma.

‘No, sweetheart, we’re going home in Harry’s car.’

‘I want to go home with Daddy.’

Julianne tries to convince her that Harry has a real y nice car. ‘It has leather seats and that lovely smel , remember?’

Harry puts his hand on her head. ‘I’l open the sunroof, if you’d like.’

Emma twists away and swings her arm. One of her fists col ides with Harry’s groin. His body jack-knifes and he sucks in a painful breath. Stil doubled over, he groans - or at least it sounds like a groan from a distance, but up close he clearly says, ‘Fuck me!’

Emma hears it too. ‘Harry said a bad word.’

Julianne tel s her to apologise.

‘But, Mummy, it was a real y real y bad word.’

‘Tel Harry you’re sorry.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I know it was an accident, but you should stil say that you’re sorry.’

Harry stil can’t straighten completely. ‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’

‘He said the f-u-c-k word,’ says Emma.

‘Don’t you
ever
say that!’ responds Julianne.

Emma points at Harry. ‘What about him?’

‘He didn’t mean it.’

‘He should get in trouble too.’

Harry interrupts. ‘Just let her go with her father.’

‘No,’ argues Julianne. ‘This is about setting boundaries. Emma has to learn to do as she’s told.’

Emma clutches her stomach. ‘I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Julianne, who is ful y aware of Emma’s dramatic displays of hypochondria (and even more dramatic feats of projectile vomiting).

‘Maybe she should go in Joe’s car,’ says Harry, thinking of the Lexus and his leather seats. ‘He could drop her home.’

Julianne fires a look at him.

Meanwhile, Emma drops to the ground and launches one of her famous ‘you’l -have-to-drag-me-out-of-here’ tantrums. Julianne does her best to ignore her, but Emma’s limbs seem to liquefy and she’s impossible to pick up.

We’re not so much drawing a crowd as dispersing it - driving parents towards their cars.

Julianne looks at me. ‘Please just leave.’

‘What have I done?’

‘Nothing, but you’re making things worse.’

The last thing I hear is Harry muttering under his breath. ‘For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t she just go with her father’ - and seeing Julianne give him her death stare.

I almost feel sorry for him. Harry’s chances of getting lucky tonight just disappeared with the flying pigs.

Annie Robinson’s mobile is turned off and she isn’t answering her landline. I drive the familiar roads, trying to come up with reasons why she would have missed the musical. She should have been on stage, taking her bow.

I try her home number again. After eight rings the answering machine clicks in.

Hi, sorry we missed you. Leave us a message after the beep.

She’s a single woman living alone, which explains the ‘we’ and ‘us’.

Beep!

‘Annie, it’s, Joe. I’ve been at the school. I thought I’d see you tonight . . .’ I pause, hoping that she might pick up. ‘The show was great . . . real y good. And the sets were terrific . . . If you’re there, Annie, talk to me . . . I hope everything is al right . . . cal me when you get this . . .’

Pul ing into Annie’s road, I see her car parked in front of her building. She doesn’t answer the intercom. I press the buttons on either side but nobody answers. Walking back to the street, I fol ow the footpath until I find a smal al ey leading between the houses to the canal. Picking my way along the grassy bank, I count the houses until I come to her wal ed garden.

Hoisting myself up, I clamber over the wal , landing heavily on a climbing rose bush. Thorns catch on my clothes and I have to untangle the vines. The blue-and-white tiled table is stil on the terrace. The two chairs are tilted so as not to col ect rainwater.

Pressing my face to the sliding glass door, I peer into the dark lounge and open-plan kitchen. I can see a neon clock blinking on the oven. The only other light is leaking from beneath Annie’s bedroom door. It seems to shimmer and cling to the floor. Why is that? Water. The room is flooded.

I should stay outside. Phone the police. What if Annie has slipped over? She could be hurt or bleeding. I bang on the glass door and shout her name.

This is crazy. I should do something. Picking up the nearest chair, I swing it hard against the door. It doesn’t shatter. I try again. Harder. The pane vibrates and disintegrates in a mosaic of crumbling glass.

The living room is undisturbed. An IKEA catalogue lies open on the sofa. Annie’s shoes are under the coffee table. To the left the kitchen benches are wiped clean. Cups and plates rest on the draining rack. A shiny paper gift bag sits on the counter next to a bottle of wine. Open. Half drunk.

Water covers the floor. It’s coming from the bedroom. I knock on the door and cal Annie’s name. Turning the handle, I push it open. A bedside light is on. Discarded clothes are bunched on the floor beside a wicker basket. A matching set of knickers and bra. Mauve. Fresh clothes are laid out on the bed, chosen for tonight.

I remember the bathroom from my night with Annie. White-tiled, it smel s of perfume and potpourri. A frosted glass screen shields the bathtub and running taps. Flower petals have spil ed over the edge and blocked the drain on the floor.

Annie is lying in the overflowing tub with one hand draped over the edge and a broken wine glass beneath it. Blood and vomit stain the water.

She’s alive. Convulsing.

Hooking my arms beneath hers, I struggle to lift her. Water sloshes over my clothes. I get her to her knees, al the while talking - tel ing her to hold on. Tel ing her it wil be OK.

Half dragging her to the bed, I lay her on her side, pul ing a duvet over her nakedness. Then I cal three nines. Ambulance. Police. Name. Address. Number.

‘I think she’s been poisoned,’ I tel the dispatcher.

‘What did she consume?’

‘I don’t know. It could have been in the wine.’

‘Is she inebriated?’

‘No . . . I don’t think so . . . I’m not sure.’

‘What is her approximate height and weight?’

‘What?’

‘Her height and weight.’

‘Oh, ah, she’s five-six. Maybe nine stone.’

‘Did you have any of the wine, sir?’