Bone and Cane (29 page)

‘You don’t get close to Poll,’ Ed says. ‘She keeps it all in.’

For a moment, Ed seemed to have stopped boasting. Nick had to be careful not to force it. ‘I thought she needed me,’ he mumbled.

‘She pulled the old hard-done-by routine on you, did she?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Aye, me too. I was a real sucker for her. All that time inside, thinking about when I got out, knowing she were on her own, waiting. Then, when I go to see her, she’s not interested.’

‘What do you expect when she thought you’d killed her brother and sister-in-law?’ Nick said, taking the exit for Long Eaton and the M1.

‘I didn’t mean the second time,’ Ed muttered.

Nick considered what he was saying. Polly had given Ed the cold shoulder when he got out of prison after doing six months for theft. Was that a motive for murder? Ed killed Terry and Liv to get back at Polly? It didn’t add up.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Ed said, ‘your life’s so fucked up, maybe you deserve a bit of advice.’

‘Go ahead,’ Nick said, adrenaline making him accelerate to ninety, before he remembered that he needed to make this journey last as long as possible.

‘If Sarah’s not interested, don’t go after Polly. She might have you, but she’ll lie to you, use you, take what she can, fuck you up and spit you out. She can’t help herself.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ Nick said.

‘I’m tired of talking. Put radio on.’

Ed didn’t say another word during the journey. When they got to the part of the news where Sarah’s appointment was announced, he turned to Nick.

‘You knew about that?’

Nick nodded. Ed laughed long and hard.

Fifteen minutes later, Nick pulled up outside Departures at Birmingham Airport. They’d made good time. He would be back in Nottingham by six, when the sun rose.

‘You’re really not coming back?’

‘To Nottingham? Never. Police there’ll do me for the smallest thing, first chance they get. I’ll see what I find. I hear word Cuba’s opening up. My money’ll go a long way over there. I might get into tourism.’

‘There’s still one thing I don’t get,’ Nick said.

‘Only one?’ Ed asked, getting out of the car.

Nick put the hazard lights on and helped Ed unload his heavy bags. ‘Killing Terry makes sense. Revenge for putting you inside. But waiting around to kill the wife was such a big risk. It screwed your alibi. The kids could have been with her.’

‘Is that why you drove me here?’ Ed asked. ‘You thought you’d talk me into some kind of confession?’

‘They can’t try you again,’ Nick pointed out.

‘But they can try the real killer,’ Ed said. ‘It weren’t me killed Terry, all right? I’ll tell you one thing about Liv. The photos in the paper didn’t do her justice. She were right fit.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I like it best when they’re frightened.’

Ed loaded his stuff onto a baggage trolley.

‘I can manage from here,’ he said. ‘Hold on. I owe you something.’

Ed reached into his pocket.

‘I don’t want . . .’

‘Did you think I’d forgotten?’ Ed interrupted, as Nick stood, unguarded, in front of him.

He kicked Nick in the balls, hard. When Nick fell to the ground, in agony. Ed leant over him.

‘You’re lucky I’m only wearing trainers,’ he said. ‘If I’d known you were driving, I wouldn’t have packed me boots.’

37

S
arah took the 8.03 train to St Pancras. At least travelling first-class gave her a measure of privacy and peace. She needed quiet after sleeping badly, her mind alternating between excitement at her new job and sadness at being forced to dump Nick so soon after starting things up again. She’d had no choice and he’d understood. That didn’t stop her feeling bad about it.

‘Mind if I join you for a few minutes?’

‘You mean until they come and inspect the tickets?’ Sarah waved Brian Hicks into one of the free seats opposite her.

‘I did a nice piece about you for today’s paper.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’ The
Evening Post
had just gone to press. Her constituency office would fax her any important local stories by midday.

‘One story that isn’t in the paper today, I thought you’d want to know. Ed Clark.’

‘What about him?’

‘Got his compensation through. A quarter of a million he settled for. Could have held out for more, given the strong implications that the police fitted him up for killing one of their own, but he was in a hurry for the money, evidently. I’m surprised he didn’t call to thank you.’

‘Maybe he left a message at my office,’ Sarah said, not revealing she already knew about Ed’s ill-gotten gains. ‘Unlike you, he doesn’t have my home number.’

‘Word is, he’s gone to the Caribbean,’ Brian told her. ‘In the air now. I spoke to his mother just before I left the office. She says he bought a one-way ticket, doesn’t know when he’s coming back.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘That’s what I heard.’

Sarah wondered if Polly knew about the one-way ticket. But she’d exhausted her sympathy for the bereaved sister.

‘I rang the police after I heard about the compo, asked if they’d reopened the case.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Sarah said. ‘You were given the usual
we are not pursuing any other suspects
.’

‘No, even they realized that was a bit tactless in the circumstances. They said, off the record, that we’d never know if Liv Shanks killed her husband, or not.’

‘They never proved that those were her fingerprints on the gun,’ Sarah pointed out, angry and a little bored that the police were trotting out a theory she had always avoided as being in bad taste.

‘The fingerprints on the gun were smeared, but a close match nevertheless. She could have shot him, then shot herself.’

‘With the best part of an hour between the shootings? It still doesn’t make sense.’

‘There was a blow to the head before the shooting. Maybe Liv knocked Terry out, then went hunting for the gun. It took her a while to find it, to work up the courage to finish him off.’

‘And the motive? Marital rape?’

‘That we’ll never know,’ Brian said. ‘But it makes as much sense as Ed Clark having hung around to kill Liv. I thought you’d like to know what the police were saying, so you could put it behind you. Congratulations on the job. You’ll be in the cabinet before you know it.’

‘Thanks, Brian. I appreciate your support.’

‘You’d have beaten Barrett Jones easily even without my help. You know that?’

‘Probably,’ Sarah said, aware that Brian was none-too-subtly reminding her she owed him a favour. ‘Water under the bridge. Anyway, if there are any stories I can put your way, I will.’

‘Appreciated,’ Brian said. ‘I’ll let you get back to your work.’ He left for second class. Sarah opened her copy of the
Guardian
but didn’t read. She thought about Ed in the air. He was gone for good, with any luck. She could put that behind her now. There was work to do.

Nick managed to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before seeing his probation officer. He apologised profusely for missing his meeting of the week before.

‘No problem,’ said Dave Trapp. ‘I expect you were ill.’

Dave liked to treat Nick as an equal. They were two guys with degrees and careers, only Nick had taken a wrong turning: that was Dave’s approach, one that Nick found easy to go along with. He was about to tell the truth when he remembered that failure to provide a legitimate excuse resulted in a warning, three of which would put you back inside.

‘I came down with some kind of fever, lost track of time.’

‘Been to the doctor?’

‘No. I was too ill to go out. When I felt better, it was the weekend so the doctor wasn’t open. Didn’t seem much point in going today. I had a lie-in, but I seem to be on the mend.’

‘You don’t look too bad now,’ Dave said. ‘But, next time, do yourself a favour, get a doctor’s note.’

‘Will do,’ Nick said. He was being treated with respect but still felt humiliated, a naughty schoolboy forced to sustain a trivial lie.

‘Any work?’ the probation officer asked.

‘Just the two private tutees I told you about.’

‘No problems there?’ They had discussed at their last meeting whether Nick was required to disclose his convictions to the parents. He’d have to disclose them were he applying to work in a school. Dave had reached the conclusion that this wasn’t necessary, so long as Nick didn’t lie if asked. Probation wanted him to work. Statistically, Nick was much more likely to reoffend if he was unemployed.

‘None at all.’

‘All this free time isn’t giving the devil work for idle hands?’

At least he hadn’t asked the awkward question he’d asked in their first few meetings:
Keeping off the wacky baccy?
Smoking it wasn’t the same as growing it. According to Dave, Probation Services assessed Nick’s biggest risk factor as a return to some kind of drug dealing.

‘My sister-in-law just had a baby. I’ve been round there a lot.’

‘Good to hear. Have you thought about doing some voluntary work? It’s a good way of getting recent references for a job you like. In the long run, with someone of your experience and intelligence, it could lead to a full-time job. Drug counselling, for instance.’

‘That’s a thought,’ Nick said.

‘I’ll give you some leaflets. Think it over. That’s it, then. Another couple of weeks and you’ll be down to once-a-fortnight interviews.’

After that it would be once a month, until Nick reached what would have been the three-quarters point in his sentence: six years. Beyond that, he would no longer be on license. He could still be recalled to prison if he was convicted of another crime – but only if a punitive judge decided to embellish his sentence with the unused time from his previous sentence. It would be two and a half years before Nick was completely clear. Even then, as he’d served more than five years, the law said that he would always have to declare his conviction on application forms, no matter how inconsequential the job.

‘Anything I can help you with? Courses, references, whatever . . .’

‘No, I’m fine.’

Despite the missed appointment, Nick’s interview had taken less than ten minutes, as usual. He walked back through the city, thinking about the love of a good woman. He’d nearly had that with Sarah. Deep down, though, he’d always known Sarah was too good for him, even in the days when they were living together. Maybe that was why he’d not fought harder to keep her when she joined the police.

He bought a first edition of the
Evening Post
from a paper stand by the Council House.
LOCAL MP JOINS GOVERNMENT
the headline said, with the story that Nick had heard on the early morning news. Sarah Bone, after her surprise re-election, was joining the home office as a junior minister. For prisons.

38

‘S
o he took it well, you dumping him?’

‘I didn’t give him much choice. Nick’s still on probation. He’s liable to be recalled if he commits another crime, no matter how minor. I’ve already got him out of hot water once.’

‘What for?’

‘The police were threatening to do him for perverting the course of justice, pretending to be his brother when he drove a cab. Not serious, but enough to put him back inside if they prosecuted. I care about Nick, a lot. But I couldn’t turn down the job. Think I was too hard on him?’

‘No. If you’d known what he’d done, you wouldn’t have started things up with him again.’

It wasn’t as simple as that, but Sarah wasn’t going to show Andrew how guilty she felt. It was a relief to find somebody she could talk this over with, someone who knew Nick nearly as well as she did. They had both dumped him. That was how friendship worked when you were older – you stuck with someone while you could be of use to each other, then let go when the wind changed. Maybe it had always worked that way.

‘If I’d known . . .’ She shook her head and looked around her. ‘I still can’t believe I’m back here.’

They were drinking tea on the wide terrace of the House of Commons. New MPs were avidly admiring the view over the river. They looked like teenagers dazed on ecstasy. All had just heard their leader tell them they were here ‘not to enjoy the trappings of power but to do a job and uphold the highest standards in public life’. There were so many Labour MPs that there was no room big enough to hold them in the Palace of Westminster. They’d had to go down the road to Church House to listen to the sermon.

‘It’s an exciting time,’ Andrew said.

Sarah described the meeting the previous day, when the fledgling Home Secretary had outlined her new duties. Then she tried to engage Andrew in conversation about the independence of the Bank of England. She quickly gathered that Andrew had no interest in politics, not even fiscal policy, except where it affected how much tax he paid on his profits from property development.

‘How does it feel to be one of
Blair’s babes
?’ he asked.

‘I’m hardly a babe,’ Sarah said.

‘I think you are,’ Andrew assured her.

Sarah accepted the compliment. There had been a photoshoot that morning with all of the new female MPs. Their wide-eyed optimism reminded Sarah of herself, two years previously. An MP’s job quickly become mundane. Doable, even satisfying at times, but never glamorous. Sarah had missed out by arriving halfway through the government’s term, long after all the committees had been doled out and alliances between new MPs had been forged. The thrill of her by-election victory soon faded. The most exciting part of being an MP was campaigning to get the job. As this election drew closer, she’d helped prepare policies for the near-certainty of power. Her excitement had been dampened by the conviction that she would not be re-elected.

Yet here she was. Was there any feeling better than getting something you’d long since given up on? She couldn’t explain to Andrew how exhilarating this job was, how it made sense of everything she’d done up to this point in her life, how she was living in every moment and couldn’t wait to get out of bed in the morning. She spotted the Prime Minister’s Press Secretary.