The Birthday Girl (17 page)

'What?' she asked.

'What do you mean?'

'You're grinning at me.'

'So? I'm happy.'

Her smile widened. 'Yeah? Me too.'

He drove in silence for a while. 'Have you and Katherine had an argument?' Freeman asked eventually. He kept his eyes on the road.

Mersiha sat without replying for a while. Her hand reached for the radio controls but she pulled it back at the last moment as if she realised that it would be impolite to disturb the silence with music. 'No, we haven't argued,' she said. 'It seems to me that you're not talking like you used to. You used to enjoy hanging around with each other. You used to behave like sisters.'

'Maybe I'm just getting older.' Mersiha sounded suddenly sad as if a melancholy memory had just intruded into her thoughts.

'You don't think she resents you, do you?' he asked.

'You sound like Dr Brown,' she said.

'Sorry,' Freeman said, 'I didn't mean to. It's just that you're becoming a young woman, and Katherine has always taken a real pride in the way she looks.'

'I remind her that she's getting older, you mean?'

Freeman smiled. 'Pumpkin, we're all getting older.'

Mersiha ran a hand through her thick black hair. She could be a model, Freeman realised. She had the look, and the confidence. 'I don't know what's wrong,' she said. 'I've just been a bit low lately, that's all.'

'Thinking about home, you mean?'

She shook her head. 'This is my home,' she said.

'Good,' Freeman said. 'I'm glad you feel that way. Really.' He saw the marina in the distance, the masts of countless yachts standing to attention like soldiers on parade. 'Can you do me a favour?'

'Sure.' She replied without hesitation.

'Make an effort to reassure Katherine, will you? She loves you, she really does. She takes any sign of coolness personally. She might not say so, but inside I know it really hurts her. She needs reassurance, too.'

Mersiha sighed. 'Yeah, okay.' Freeman held out his right hand, his little finger crooked. Mersiha interlinked the little finger on her left hand with his and they shook. That made it an unbreakable promise. Mersiha took her hand away first. She looked out of the window and sighed again.

# *

Ernie Derbyshire's head felt as if it was going to explode. He tried lifting it, to ease the pressure, but the strain was too much and he flopped back. Breathing hurt, swallowing hurt, everything hurt, but the anticipation of what was to come was worse than any physical discomfort. He closed his eyes and thought back to the days when he was a child, hiding under his bed from a father who drank too much and who took a perverse pleasure in beating his offspring with a studded leather belt. At five years old his backside was as scarred and marked as a deep-sea fisherman's hands.

Derbyshire had hated his father, hated him with a vengeance, and he'd have run away from home if only there had been somewhere for him to go. He'd tried closing his eyes tight and wishing that he was somewhere else. The young Derbyshire had convinced himself that if only he could imagine a place in perfect detail it would become real, and he could escape there, away from the damp basement flat and the abusive father. It was a field with a grass that was greener than he'd ever seen in the Bronx, with buttercups and dandelions and big spreading trees and a cloudless blue sky. Small songbirds sat in the trees, singing and calling, and through the middle of the field bubbled a stream of icy-cold water. Derbyshire could picture himself paddling in the stream, his socks and shoes off, smooth hard pebbles pushing up between his toes.

A railway track skirted one end of the field, wooden sleepers and gleaming steel rails lying on a bed of gravel. Derbyshire had walked along the rails, jumping from sleeper to sleeper, promising himself that if he avoided treading on the gravel he'd be able to stay in the safe place for ever. He'd never seen a train, though occasionally he thought he'd heard its shrill whistle in the distance. The young Derbyshire thought it was the train which was the problem. Until he could picture the train, the place would never be real, but no matter how hard he tried it remained elusive, just around the corner, out of sight, and THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 137 whenever he opened his eyes he was still underneath the bed, his face down in the dust, hiding from the belt and the beating.

He heard the rattle of the bolt that kept the cold-room door locked and he opened his ice-crusted eyes. His breath plumed around his face and through the misty vapour he saw two pairs of legs step through the door. He'd been hanging upside down for so long that his brain automatically rerouted the signals from his eyes and he had no problem identifying Red Scarf and Orange Peel. They were wearing thick coats with wool scarves around their necks and leather gloves. They were carrying baseball bats. Derbyshire began to tremble.

The two heavies circled Derbyshire, scraping the bats along the concrete floor. It was a game they played, a game they'd been playing for almost six hours. They'd left him alone all Friday night, letting his imagination run riot, then they'd questioned him for an hour or so, smiling and offering him cigarettes and telling him that if he played ball with them then they wouldn't play ball with him. Red Scarf had laughed loudly at that, but his eyes had remained flint hard and Derbyshire knew that he'd been lying. For most of the time he'd been hanging by his chained feet from a hook in the ceiling, surrounded by sides of prime beef. They'd got physical for the first time just after eleven o'clock. He remembered the time because Orange Peel had made a point of looking at his watch and asking his partner when they were going to have lunch. Red Scarf had said something about not being hungry just then, and as he finished speaking he'd whacked the back of Derbyshire's legs with his baseball bat like Babe Ruth going for a home run. Derbyshire never knew where the next blow was going to come from. They took a perverse delight in catching him unawares, varying the rhythm and the target areas, extending the torture way beyond what he'd have believed was possible. His legs were a mass of screaming nerves, and he was sure his left knee had splintered. Red Scarf had aimed most of his blows at Derbyshire's stomach and groin, and the detective had almost choked on his own blood and vomit.

The routine was always the same. They taunted him. They beat him until he passed out. They left him alone. Derbyshire had no idea how many times the routine had been repeated.

He had no recollection of individual beatings, just the cycle of pain.

'How's it going, shit-for-brains?' Red Scarf asked.

'Just hanging around,' Derbyshire mumbled. He had a sudden feeling of deja vu, as if he'd made the same quip before.

'He's a funny man,' Orange Peel said from somewhere behind him.

'A very funny man,' Red Scarf agreed.

Orange Peel slammed his bat into Derbyshire's left kidney and the detective grunted, biting his teeth together. He was almost too tired to scream any more. He closed his eyes again and tried to escape to the safe place. Another blow, this time between his shoulders, hard enough to start his body swinging.

They'd left the cold-room door open so Derbyshire didn't hear the third man come in, but when he opened his eyes again he saw a pair of professionally shined shoes and above them dark blue trousers with a crease as keen as a surgeon's scalpel. Derbyshire's gaze travelled up to a black cashmere coat, to a white silk scarf, and above it, a gaunt face, the eyes as cold and lifeless as the slabs of beef. The cheeks were hollow, the lips fleshy and pale, and the hooked nose belonged more to a predatory bird than to a man. It was a cruel face, a face that didn't smile very often. The hair was steel grey and closely cropped, a convict's haircut. Derbyshire recognised the face from the newspaper cuttings he'd given Lennie Nelson. It was Bzuchar Utsyev.

Utsyev smiled malevolently down at Derbyshire, the way a vulture might greet a prospective meal, then turned to Red Scarf. 'He's told you everything?' he asked.

Red Scarf grinned and whacked the baseball bat against the palm of his own left hand, making Derbyshire wince. 'Couldn't think of anything else to ask him, boss.'

Utsyev ran his hand across his chin as if feeling for stubble. 'His contact?'

'A guy called Lennie Nelson. A high-flier with the First Bank of Baltimore.' He grinned. 'A nigger,' he added, as if the fact would appeal to Utsyev.

Utsyev held out his hand. Without being asked, Red Scarf THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 139 handed over the cheque. Utsyev studied it as if it were a search warrant. 'For services rendered?' he asked Derbyshire. When the detective didn't answer, Utsyev tore the cheque into small pieces and threw them into his face like confetti. Some of them stuck to the blood and sweat and Derbyshire looked like a man who'd tried to heal his own shaving cuts and had done a particularly bad job of it.

'You want us to keep hurting him?' Orange Peel asked, weighing his bat in his hands.

'What do you think? Do you think he's suffered enough?' Utsyev seemed genuinely interested in how the men felt. They looked at each other, wondering what he really wanted to hear.

Red Scarf shrugged. 'He doesn't scream as much as he did at first,' he said, looking at Orange Peel for support.

Orange Peel nodded enthusiastically. 'We've been working on him since this morning. He's hurting, all right.' He looked at Utsyev and seemed to detect the beginnings of a frown. 'Of course, we could keep going for a while. No problem.'

'No problem at all,' Red Scarf agreed. He smacked the bat against his palm again as if to emphasise his enthusiasm.

Utsyev nodded his approval. 'What about you, Derbyshire? What do you think?'

Derbyshire glared at his tormentor through puffy eyes. 'Just don't kill me. Please. I've got a wife. A kid.'

Utsyev looked across at Red Scarf. 'He had a photo in his wallet,' Red Scarf confirmed. 'Ugly bitches, both of 'em.'

'He should have thought of them before he stuck his nose in our business,' Utsyev said. 'Give him another beating. Break his fucking hands as well. Then we'll take him for a picnic'

The two heavies began hitting the detective straight away, keen to impress Utsyev. He watched them go about their work for a minute or so, then left them to it.

Derbyshire closed his eyes tight and tried to picture his safe place - the green field, the trees, and the train track. In the distance he could hear the whistle of a steam engine and he went to stand on the track. As unseen blows rained down on his legs and chest, he clung to the image of the train, roaring down on him, wheels clicking, pistons hissing, whistle 140 STEPHEN LEATHER screeching. Derbyshire smiled through the pain. The train was coming. It really was.

Katherine Freeman sat with her legs curled underneath her on the sofa as she smoked a cigarette and stared at the framed photograph of Luke and Tony. She missed her son fiercely. She no longer felt the agonising pain of the loss - that had mercifully faded some eighteen months or so after the accident - and she now rarely dreamed of him, but there was still an ever-present sense that something was missing from her life. She exhaled deeply and studied her husband's smiling face through the smoke. Grinning as if he didn't have a care in the world, bursting with pride for his beautiful, smart, bubbly, healthy son.

Once the sharp pain had faded, Katherine would play a game in her imagination, replaying the accident in her mind and giving herself the power to change its outcome, to have Luke survive and to have Tony go crashing through the windscreen and die in the road. At first she played the game despite herself. Images would creep up on her, almost against her will, as she carried out the housework or sat trying to read a magazine. She'd find herself picturing Luke, alive and well and loving her, and she'd shut him out, knowing that it was only wishful thinking. But later, after the doctors had told her that she'd be unable to have any more children, she would lie in bed and summon up the images of Luke, standing by his father's grave, holding back the tears, squeezing her hand bravely and telling her that it was all right because he'd take care of her, no matter what. She would have married again, of course, but only after a respectable period, and it would have to be someone who got on with Luke. A father figure, but not a replacement for Tony. There would never be anyone to replace him. She'd explain that to Luke, and he'd nod and say that he understood, but that he was pleased that Mommy had found someone to make her happy. Maybe in time he'd even call him Daddy. Katherine could play the game for THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 141 hours, picturing her life with Luke, wiping his tears and sharing his triumphs, even though she knew that the longer she played, the worse the hurt when she came back to earth. Back to the real world, a world of Tony and no Luke.

Katherine realised with a jolt that the cigarette had burned down to its filter tip. She tossed it into the ashtray. A tear ran down her cheek and she wiped it away. The doorbell startled her out of her reverie. She looked at the gold carriage clock on the bookcase. Tony and Mersiha wouldn't be back for hours. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and then walked through the hallway and opened the front door. Maury Anderson stood there, smiling like an eager-to-please puppy. 'Hello, Maury,' she said, wondering if he could tell that she'd been crying. 'Tony's not here.'

'I know,' he said, his grin widening. 'Can I come in?' Katherine stepped aside and Anderson walked into the house as if he owned it. Katherine closed the door and followed him into the sitting room. 'Tony said he was taking Mersiha sailing,' Anderson said, as if an explanation was called for.

'Do you want a drink?' Katherine asked, going over to the drinks cabinet.

'It's a bit early for me, but you go ahead,' Anderson said, dropping down on to the sofa by the fireplace.

Katherine put her head on one side like an inquisitive bird as she weighed Anderson up, wondering if he'd meant it nastily or if it was just because he knew her so well. She decided it was the latter and turned her back on him to pour herself a generous measure of brandy and Coke. She felt rather than heard him ease himself up off the sofa and come up behind her. His hands slipped around her waist, then slid upwards until he was holding her breasts. He squeezed gently, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs through the material of her dress. She gasped. 'Damn you, Maury,' she whispered. 'You know how that turns me on.'