Kill My Darling (38 page)

And so to the celebration, and the astonishing fact that McLaren had sidled to Slider's door shortly after it had been announced and asked, with a casualness that would have fooled nobody, whether they were ‘bringing people'.

Slider hadn't got as far as thinking about that – there was so much stuff in his in-tray by now, the bottom layer had turned to coal. Traditionally the celebration had been for the firm only, but Joanna had sometimes come, and though that was probably a special dispensation for him as the big boss, there was no stated rule against it. What was far more interesting was that McLaren wanted to bring ‘somebody', which presumably meant a woman, and Slider knew he would lose his place in his team's heart if he denied them the chance to see what sort of woman would go out with McLaren.

So he said yes, and as soon as McLaren had gone, hastened to telephone Joanna to tell her to come.

He didn't say a word to anyone else, but perhaps McLaren himself had mentioned it. At any rate, tension grew through the day, and when they finally decamped for the pub, you could have sliced it, buttered it, whacked a slice of corned beef between and sold it on a sandwich stall. When they got to the Boscombe and secured their usual corner, there was no sign of any extraneous bodies, but McLaren had an air of nervousness, and the usual loud conversation was curiously muted as everyone watched the door while attempting to appear not to.

The publican, Andy Barrett, brought the pints and some grub. It had gone upmarket a bit of late, and instead of the lopsided doorsteps and pork pies of yore there were three sorts of sandwiches in neat triangles on a big salver, with salad garnish; nachos and salsa; and a selection of Indian snacks – samosas, bhajis and pakoras.

Joanna came in. Everyone hitched up a bit and she squeezed in beside Slider.

‘What's all this?' she asked, indicating the snacks. ‘Posh grub?'

‘The clientele is getting younger,' Atherton said across the table, with a touch of moodiness. Emily was away again. ‘An effort has to be made.'

‘I miss the old days,' Joanna said. ‘Those fluorescent-orange Scotch eggs. The Barbie-pink pork pies.'

‘That's just colour prejudice,' said Atherton.

‘So when's the main event coming off?' she asked.

Slider made a shushing face, but Connolly, who had heard, had no shame, and turned to McLaren and said, ‘Yeah, right, Maurice, where's this bird of yours? Sure I'm starting to think you've imagined her.'

‘She should be here any minute,' he said, with what Slider would have sworn was a blush. ‘She's coming from work.'

Every ear was pricked. ‘What's she do, then?' Connolly asked. ‘Nurse, is she?'

Joanna exchanged a private smile with Slider. Male musicians often went out with nurses for the same reason – they understood impossible schedules.

‘No, she's a beauty therapist,' McLaren said.

Everyone was too stunned to lay tongue to the obvious retorts, which was probably just as well.

‘At the Jingles Sports and Beauty Club – you know, down Chiswick, by the river. That big white building.'

‘Yes, I know it,' Joanna said, to rescue the poor mutt from the prevailing shock and awe. ‘I've gone past it a few times going down to Barn Elms, to the recording studios. That must be an interesting job.'

‘Yeah. She's the senior consultant,' he said with pride. He met Joanna's eyes and said, with an air of flinging himself off a cliff, ‘She's been giving me a make-over.'

The explosion of suppressed derision from around the table was fortunately masked by the door opening again and McLaren saying with rather touching eagerness, ‘There she is.'

Atherton, who had been fiddling with his mobile, wondering whether it would seem too needy to ring Emily again, looked up, and felt his jaw drop like rain in Wimbledon week. McLaren's girlfriend stood framed in the doorway, looking around for a friendly face. She was a good deal older than him, for a start, but seemed to have forgotten to take that into account when getting dressed. Her skirt was short and black, her shoes vertiginous and strappy, her top was clinging and fuchsia pink, and displayed a cleavage Carter and Caernarvon would have felt compelled to stick their heads down. ‘I see wonderful things!' But more Tooting Common than Tutankhamen. Her make-up was blatantly professional, her hair brazenly highlighted, and her costume jewellery so bright it could have been used to signal aircraft. All she needs, Atherton thought in astonished awe, is a pimp and a lamp post.

McLaren had lurched to his feet, and Atherton, turning his gaze that way, saw Maurice's face so soft and marshmallowy and eager and proud, it would make you vomit if it didn't touch you to the quick.

‘Everybody, this is Jackie. Jackie Griffiths,' he said in a voice of wonder. And suddenly Atherton could not bear to see him kicked, even in a friendly manner. He was getting to his feet, but Slider was ahead of him, and because they had both risen, oddly everyone else did, too, and a kindly formality came over the party, keeping those who might have mocked silent.

‘Good to meet you, Jackie,' Slider said, reaching out a hand across the table.

‘This is the boss, our guv, Mr Slider,' McLaren babbled.

‘Pleased to meet you,' Jackie said, shaking the hand. Her nails were long, square cut and French varnished. She smiled a professional smile. ‘Maurice has told me a lot about you. About all of you.'

Was there a hint of threat in that? Slider wondered vaguely. The introductions went round, a chair was brought, Jackie sat down, and the moment for ribaldry was safely past. McLaren went to the bar to get her a drink, and she looked round them all, beamed, and said, ‘What d'you all think of Maurice's new look? I think it's an improvement, don't you? I said to him, you're a nice-looking chap, but you don't make the most of yourself.'

Slider had never considered McLaren as being nice-looking, or indeed anything-looking. He was just McLaren, the food disposal system, the man for whom the question had been coined, ‘Are you a man or a mouth?'

‘We all noticed the difference,' he said.

She turned to him happily. ‘Well, I'm glad my hard work wasn't all for nothing! D'you like his new hairstyle? I'm not sure I've got it quite right yet, but I'll have to wait a few weeks before I can cut it again. Lucky it grows so fast. He's got lovely thick hair. I told him—' McLaren returned with a gin and tonic to place before her, and she looked up at him. ‘I told you, didn't I, you've got lovely hair, but you don't do anything with it.'

‘You live somewhere out Ruislip way, don't you?' Slider asked, to settle at least one question in his mind.

‘Northolt,' she said. ‘How did you know?' Luckily she didn't wait for the question to be answered. ‘It's a bit of a trek out to Chiswick, where I work now. I was thinking of moving when I got the new job, and it'd be nice to be a bit nearer to Maurice, but you've got to think of house prices. Of course, they do say two can live as cheaply as one. Maybe I could get someone to share with,' she concluded with a gay laugh and a roguish glance at McLaren, who only gazed back at her, obviously entranced by her vivacity. Slider had never known him so silent.

Mind you, Jackie talked so much there was no need for anyone else to do a thing. It occurred to him sadly that there might now have to be a rule about bringing people in future. But he couldn't feel anything but kindness towards someone who was willing to go to so much trouble to bring happiness and an appearance of living in the twenty-first century to someone like McLaren, the man civilization forgot.

On the way home, Joanna said, ‘It didn't feel much like a celebration.'

‘I'm afraid she did talk a lot,' Slider said. ‘But there's no harm in her.'

‘I didn't mean that,' she said. ‘It's just that there's usually a certain elation because you've got your man. The Mountie syndrome. But everyone seemed a bit subdued.'

‘It's the uncertainty, I suppose. Not knowing what Hunter will be charged with or whether it will go to trial.'

‘But you solved the problem. The mystery. You started off knowing nothing, and now you know it all. That must be a satisfaction. Intellectually, at least, if not emotionally.' She looked at him, at his face waxing and waning as they passed street lamps. ‘And Auntie McGuire knows what happened to her Billy at last.'

He smiled. ‘All right, I give in. It's a triumph of sorts, and I'll accept the bouquets and put it behind me. Now what shall we talk about?'

‘We could talk about my troubles.'

‘Have you still got troubles? Oh yes, you're stuck with Daniel Kluger for the rest of the season. Can't you just rise above him?'

‘That's the trouble. It might just be possible. There's a job being advertised – co-principal in the LSO. More status, more money, a chance to get away from Kluger. And my laggard desk partner.'

Slider was alert. ‘Are you thinking of going for it?' he asked carefully.

‘Maybe,' she said. ‘They don't mind women any more. Jack – our leader, I mean, Jack Willis – thinks I could get it. But.'

He waited a bit and then said, ‘But what?'

‘It would be more work – which is great, more money – but I'd be away a lot more. Concerts, recordings. Travelling. Not being there to put Georgie to bed. All the babysitting problems that come with it.'

‘Luckily, we've got Dad,' he said.

‘George needs his parents too.'

‘I can be fairly regular when there isn't a big case on.'

‘Hmph,' she said. And then, ‘Not seeing so much of you. Is it worth it?'

‘I can't answer that,' he said. ‘It's your career. It would be a big step up for you, wouldn't it?'

‘Yes. Different pieces, different artists, different style of playing. Exciting. Challenging. Living on my wits – even more than I do now.'

‘But you love all that, don't you?' He glanced at her sideways. ‘Or don't you? You don't have to do it, you know, if you don't want to.'

‘I
do
want to! Of course I do! But it's the old dilemma, isn't it? I'm a married woman with a child. I can't give my all to my career without failing the other side.'

‘And vice versa,' he said quietly.

‘Oh, blast you, why must you always see both sides?' she said, with an exasperated sort of laugh. ‘You men just don't know what it's like. You
can
have everything.'

‘Well,' he began.

But she said, ‘There's something else.'

‘Yes?'

‘If I do go for it, and I don't get it – I don't know how I'll cope with that.'

‘Why shouldn't you get it? You're good enough, aren't you?'

‘It isn't always a matter of that. There's style, too, and personality – getting on with people.'

‘You get on with everyone.'

‘And age.'

‘Ah,' said Slider.

‘Music's getting to be more and more a young person's field. They don't value experience and knowing the repertoire and all the rest of it. Not above youth and looks, anyway. Suppose I went for the audition, and I didn't get it. You know how I hate to fail.'

‘You can't let that stop you trying things.'

‘Yes, that's the point isn't it?' she said, giving him another amused and rueful look. ‘Would I feel more of a failure for failing, or for not trying?'

He made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘I can't tell you that. How can I tell you that? You really want Atherton for these abstruse, philosophical discussions. I'm just an ordinary, common-or-garden copper.'

Another silence. She resumed: ‘I'll tell you one thing, though.'

‘What's that?'

‘It made you forget Melanie Hunter for a while, didn't it?'

He looked indignant. ‘Was that what it was all about? This whole job thing was just a ruse?'

‘Wouldn't you like to know?' She grinned.

What was it she had said – toothache to take your mind off stomach ache? And yet . . .

While he was still thinking it out, she said, ‘Those snacks weren't very substantial, I must say. Fancy some fish and chips? It's not too late, is it?'

‘Never too late for fish and chips,' he said.