Murder Is My Racquet (8 page)

Kiley tasted his scotch. “Why now?” he asked.

“We’re in the middle of renegotiating Victoria’s advertising contract. Very hush-hush. Big, big money involved. If nothing slips out of sync, everything should be finalized by the end of the week.”

“Then, hush-hush or not, somebody knows.”

“What?” Costain said, mouth twisting in a wry grin. “You don’t believe in blind luck?” And, because Victoria Clarke was now walking through the bar toward them, he rose to his feet and smiled a reassuring smile.

She was tall, taller even than Kiley, who knew the stats, had thought, and wore a dark blue warmup suit, name monogrammed neatly along sleeve and leg, with something close to style. Sports bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower and tied back, the only signs of distress were in the hollows of her eyes, the suggestion of a tremor when she shook Kiley’s hand.

“You want something?” Costain asked. “Mineral water? Juice?”

She shook her head. Standing there devoid of makeup, she almost looked what she was: nineteen.

The envelope lay on the table between two unfinished drinks. “I don’t want to talk about this here,” Victoria said.

“I thought just…” Costain began.

“Not here.” The voice wasn’t petulant, but firm.

Costain shrugged and, with a glance at Kiley, downed his gin and led the way toward the door.

• • •

C
ostain owned a flat in a mansion block close to the Thames—in fact, he owned several between there and the Cromwell Road—and for the past several months it had been Victoria’s home. Near enough to Queen’s for her to hit every day.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said.

Kiley moved an armful of discarded clothing and a paperback copy of Navratilova’s life story. The room resembled a cross between a Conran’s window and the left luggage department at Euston Station.

Victoria left them to each other’s company and reemerged some minutes later in a pale cotton top and faded jeans, hair brushed out and a little makeup around the eyes.

Sitting in an easy chair opposite Kiley, she tucked as much of her long legs beneath her as she could. “Can you help?” She had a way of looking directly at you when she spoke.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

Kiley shook his head. “Timing. Luck. You. The truth.”

Only for an instant did she lower her eyes, fingers of one hand sliding between those of the other then out again. “Adrian,” she said over her shoulder. “Get me some water,
would you? There’s some in the fridge in…” But Costain had already gone to do her bidding.

“I had Alicia—Alicia, that’s her name—when I was fifteen. Fifteen years and ten months. The year before I’d been runner-up in the National Under-Sixteens at Hove. I was on the fringes of the County team. I thought if I can get through to the last eight of the Junior Championships this next Wimbledon, I’m on my way. And then there was this lump that wouldn’t go away.”

She paused to judge the effect of what she’d just said.

Costain placed a tumbler of still mineral water in her hand and then retreated back across the room.

“Why didn’t you have an abortion?” Kiley asked.

She looked back at him evenly. “I’d already made one bad mistake.”

“So you asked your sister—that is your sister, isn’t it? In the photo?” Victoria bobbed her head. “You asked your sister to look after her… No, more than that. To say that she was hers; bring her up as her own.”

“Yes.” In the wide, high-ceilinged room, Victoria’s voice was suddenly very small.

“And she didn’t mind?”

A shadow passed across Victoria’s eyes. “You have to understand. Catherine, that’s my sister, I mean, she’s wonderful, she’s lovely with Alicia, really, but she just isn’t… Well, we’re different, chalk and cheese, she isn’t like me at all, she doesn’t…” Victoria drank from her glass and went back to balancing it on her knee. “All she’s ever wanted was to settle down, have kids, a place of her own. She didn’t want to…” Victoria sighed. “…
do
anything. She and Trevor, they’d been going steady since she was fourteen; they were saving up to get
married anyway. Mum chipped in, helped them get started. Trevor, he was bringing in good money by then, Fords at Dagenham. Of course, now I can I pay toward whatever Alicia needs; I do.”

“A good percentage of her disposable income,” Costain interrupted. “First-class holiday in Florida last year for the three of them, four weeks.”

“Catherine and Trevor,” Kiley said, “they haven’t had children of their own?”

Victoria lifted her gaze from Kiley’s face toward the window, where a fly was buzzing haphazardly against the glass. “She can’t. I mean, I suppose she could try IVF. But, no, she can’t have children of her own.”

Kiley let the moment settle. “And Alicia?”

Victoria’s lower lip slid over the upper and the water glass tipped from hand and knee onto the floor. “She thinks I’m her auntie, of course. What else?”

Adrian reached out for her as she ran but she swerved around him and slammed the bedroom door.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I think,” said Kiley, “I need a drink.”

• • •

V
ictoria had been seeing Paul Broughton ever since her fifteenth birthday. Broughton, twenty-three years old, a butcher boy in Leytonstone by day, by night the drummer in a band that might have been the Verve if the Verve hadn’t already existed. A nice East London line on post-Industrial grime and angst. With heavily amplified guitars. After a gig at Waltham-stow Assembly Rooms, he and Victoria got careless—either that, or Broughton’s timing was off.

“For fuck’s sake!” he said when Victoria told him. “What d’you think you’re gonna do? Get rid of it, of course.”

She didn’t waste words on him again. She talked to her mum and her mum, who had some experience in these things, told her not to worry, they’d find a way. Which of them first had the idea about asking Catherine, they could never be sure. Nor how Catherine persuaded Trevor. But there was big sister, half-nine to half-five in the greetings card shop and hating every minute. Victoria wore looser clothes, avoided public showers; her sister padded herself out, chucked in her job, practiced walking with splayed legs and pain in the lower back. They chose the name together from a book. After the birth—like shelling peas, the midwife said—Victoria held the baby, kissed her close, and handed her across, a smear of blood and mucus on her cheek. Still, sometimes when she woke, she felt a baby’s breath pass warm across her face.

As a Wimbledon junior, she reached the semifinals before dropping a set, strode out to take the final, as she thought, by right, and went down two and love to the LTA’s new white hope in thirty minutes flat. Costain, who had been monitoring Victoria’s progress, waited till the hurt had eased and offered her a contract, sole representation, which her mother, of course, had to sign on her behalf. Costain’s play: retreat, lie low, for now leave domestic competition alone; he financed winters in Australia, the United States. Wait till they’ve forgotten who you are then hit them smack between the eyes.

So far it had worked.

• • •

“I
assume you don’t want to pay?” Kiley said. Victoria was still in the bedroom, door locked.

“Quarter of a million? No, thanks?”

“But you’d pay something?”

Costain shrugged and pursed his lips; of course he would.

“Sooner or later, you know it’ll come out.”

“Of course. I just want to be able to manage it, that’s all. And now… the timing… you can imagine what this company’s going to be saying about their precious image. If they don’t walk away completely, and I think they might, they’ll strip what they’re offering back down to what we’re getting now. Or worse.”

“You couldn’t live with that?”

“I don’t want to live with that.”

“All right, all right. When are they getting in touch again?”

“Five this evening.”

Kiley looked at his watch. One hour, fifteen to go. “Try and stall them, buy another twenty-four hours.”

“They’ll never wear it.”

“Tell them if they want payment in full, they don’t have any choice.”

“And if they still say no?”

Kiley rose to his feet. “In the event the shit does hit the fan, I assume you’ve damage limitation planned.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you should make sure your plan’s in place.”

• • •

“S
o what did you think of her?” Kate asked. “Ms. Teen Sensation.”

“I liked her.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

They were lying, half-undressed, across the bed, Kate picking her way through an article by Naomi Klein, seeking something with which to disagree in print. Kiley had been reading one of the Chandlers Kate had bought him for his birthday—Give you some idea of how a private eye’s supposed to think—and liking it well enough. Although it was still a book. Before that, they had been making love.

“You fancied her, that’s what you mean?”

“No. I liked her.”

“You didn’t fancy her?”

“Kate…”

“What?” But she was laughing and Kiley grinned back and shook his head and she shifted so that one of her legs rested high across his and he began to stroke her shoulder and her back.

“You got your extra twenty-four hours,” Kate said.

“Apparently.”

“Is that going to be enough?”

“If it’s someone close, someone obvious, then, yes. But if it’s somebody outside the loop, there’s no real chance.”

“And he knows that, Costain?”

Kiley nodded. “I’m sure he does.”

“In which case, why not involve the police?”

“Because the minute he does, someone inside the Force will sell him out to the media before tomorrow’s first edition. You should know that better than me.”

“Jack,” she said, smiling. “You’ll do what you can.” And rolled from her side onto her back.

• • •

V
ictoria’s mum, Leslie, was a dead ringer for Christine McVie. The singer from Fleetwood Mac. Remember? Not the skinny one with the Minnie Mouse voice, but the other one, older, more mature. Dyed blonde hair and lived-in face and a voice that spoke of sex and forty cigarettes a day; the kind of woman you might fancy rotten if you were fifteen, which was what Kiley had been at the time, and you spotted her or someone like her behind the counter in the local chemist or driving past in one of those white vans delivering auto parts, nicotine at her finger ends and oil on her overalls.
Rumours
. Kiley alone upstairs in his room, listening to the record again and again. Rolling from side to side on the bed, trying to keep his hands to himself.

“Won’t you come in?” Leslie Clarke said. She was wearing a leisure suit in pale mauve, gold slippers with a small heel. Dark red fingernails. She didn’t have a cigarette still in her hand, but had stubbed it out, Kiley thought, when the doorbell rang; the smell of it warm and acrid on her as he squeezed past into the small lobby and she closed the double-glazed Tudor-style external door and ushered him into the living room with its white leather-look chairs and neat little nest of tables and framed photographs of her granddaughter, Alicia, on the walls.

“I made coffee.”

“Great.”

Kiley sat and held out his cup while Leslie poured. Photographs he had expected, but of a triumphant Victoria holding trophies aloft. And there were photos of her, of course, a few, perched around the TV and along the redundant mantelpiece; Catherine, too, Catherine and Trevor on their wedding
day. But little Alicia was everywhere and Leslie, following Kiley’s gaze, smiled a smile of satisfaction. “Lovely, isn’t she. A sweetheart. A real sweetheart. Bright, too. Like a button.”

Either way, Kiley thought, Victoria or Catherine, Leslie had got what she wanted. Her first grandchild.

“Vicky bought me this house, did you know that? It’s not a palace, of course, but it suits me fine. Cozy, I suppose that’s what it is. And there’s plenty of room for Alicia when she comes to stay.” She smiled and leaned back against white vinyl. “I always did have a hankering after Buckhurst Hill.” Unable to resist any longer, she reached for her Benson and Hedges, king size. “Coffee okay?”

“Lovely.” The small lies, the little social ones, Kiley had found came easy.

They talked about Victoria then, Victoria and her sister, whatever jealousies had grown up between them, festered maybe, been smoothed away. Trevor, was he resentful, did he ever treat Alicia as if she weren’t really his? But Trevor was the perfect dad and as far as money was concerned, since his move to Luton, to Vauxhall, some deal they’d done with the German owners, the unions that is, and Trevor had got himself off the shop floor—well, it wasn’t as if they were actually throwing it around but, no, cash was something they weren’t short of, Leslie was sure of that.

“What about Victoria’s father?” Kiley asked.

Leslie threw back her head and laughed. “The bastard, as he’s affectionately known.”

“Is he still around? Is there any chance he might be involved?”

Leslie shook her head. “The bastard, bless him, would’ve
had difficulties getting the right stamp onto the envelope, never mind the rest. Fifteen years, the last time I laid eyes on him; working on the oil rigs he’d been, up around Aberdeen. Took a blow to the head from some piece of equipment in a storm and had to be stretchered off. Knocked the last bit of sense out of him. The drink had seen to the rest long since.” She drew hard on her cigarette. “If he’s still alive, which I doubt, it’s in some hostel somewhere.” And shivered. “I just hope the poor bastard isn’t sleeping rough.”

• • •

P
aul Broughton was working for a record company in Camden, offices near the canal, more or less opposite the Engineer. Olive V-neck top and chocolate flat-front moleskin chinos, close-shaven head and stubbled chin, two silver rings in one ear, a stud, emerald green, at the center of his bottom lip. A&R, developing new talent, that was his thing. Little bands that gigged at the Dublin Castle or the Boston Dome, the Rocket on the Holloway Road. He was listening to a demo tape on headphones when Kiley walked toward him across a few hundred feet of open plan; Broughton’s desk awash with takeaway mugs from Caffè Nero, unopened padded envelopes and hopeful fliers.