The Ties That Bind (18 page)

‘Oh, it’s not a feature,’ said Luke. ‘I’m writing a book.’

‘What about?’

‘Well, it’s all on spec at the moment. I have got an agent but I need to do a bit more research before she’ll approach publishers. What I’ve always wanted to do is to write a sort of modern-day
In Cold Blood
, a really in-depth true crime. Write about murder with the respect it deserves. Take a case and put it under the microscope, write it up, make it . . .’

He trailed off. Sandy was nodding, and he saw that he didn’t have to explain, as he had done with Jem, as he did with most people.

‘Be careful what you wish for, that’s all I’m saying. I knew Truman, of course.’

‘
Seriously?
’ Luke’s professional detachment abandoned him.

‘You couldn’t
avoid
him in London in the sixties,’ she said airily, then became solemn. ‘
In Cold Blood
took its toll on him, Luke. He had to wait for those boys to hang before he could finish it. I mean, it made his career, it changed his life, but it ruined it as well.’ She shook her head, blew smoke in an upward plume before grinding out her cigarette and picking up her coffee cup. ‘I could never be fagged with that myself. The writing, I mean. The thrill of the job was always chasing the story for me. By the time I had to write it up, I was already bored. I think that’s the great divide among journalists: you’ve got reporters, and then you’ve got writers. The ones who’ve got a book in them and the ones who haven’t.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Well, there’s always something happening here. I’m afraid there’s no class or intrigue these days, it’s mainly drugs and Eastern Europeans, but—’

‘Sorry, I should have explained myself at the start. I’m not interested in a
contemporary
story. I’ve already got a subject in mind, and a case. In fact, I think it’s someone you know, or knew. That’s why I came to you.’

She winked. ‘That doesn’t narrow it down in this town, dear.’

‘Joss Grand,’ he said.

The cup in Sandy’s grip began to vibrate.

‘And why would you want to be getting involved with someone like that?’ It was an attempt at lightness that she could only sustain for a few seconds. She grabbed at his hand and held it tight. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Joss Grand. He’s still as dangerous now as he was when I was a girl.’ Her nails clawed a sharp warning into the pad of his palm.

‘I only want to ask you some questions.’

‘No, no, no.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d better go, Luke.’ He stayed where he was, rooted by confusion and horror at the effect his words had had on her.

‘
Go
.’ She spoke as though he had a knife to her throat.

‘OK, all right, I’m going,’ said Luke, spilling ash on the sofa in his haste. Sandy virtually pushed him out of the front door. On the step, he turned back for a second. An insistent inner voice told him that he was onto something, he couldn’t just let her throw him out like that. Another countered that he was terrorising a lone woman in her own home. He had no time to chair this internal debate: the louder voice won.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He fumbled for his phone, fingers skidding on the screen as he tried to pull up the image of Belinda’s photograph, but the door was closing in his face. ‘Can you at least tell me if the name Kathleen Duffy means anything to you?’ Sandy slammed the door, but not before incomprehension painted over the fear on her face, so quickly that it must have been genuine.

Luke hit the beach, the lights of Brighton Pier blazing brightly at his back. It was low tide, and he kicked through the stones until he reached the exposed sand, so close to the water that spray misted his glasses. He rolled the conversation with Sandy around his mind. It had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t even had a chance to ask her about Jasper Patten, and whether she’d known him. She definitely knew something about Joss Grand she didn’t want to share, but when it came to Kathleen Duffy, this self-styled one-woman almanac of Brighton’s history seemed no wiser than he was.

Chapter 26

Luke had found a cafe in the Lanes to serve as his office when the History Centre was closed. It was wedged between two jewellers (one of which had given him a good price for the Cartier ring) and had an upstairs area that no one else seemed to know about. The Wi-Fi signal was strong and free.

While he waited for Charlene to meet him in a break between viewings, and to scratch a curious itch, he ran Sandy’s name through the
Argus
website. It appeared only three times in the previous decade: two obituaries (a doctor and a councillor) and a write-up of the Shoreham Women’s Institute sponsored swim. Next, he searched the nationals for her name in conjunction with Kate Winslet’s, this time going back twenty years. None of the claimed interviews existed in any archive he could access. He forced himself to give her the benefit of the doubt. They must have been for the glossies.

Even if he hadn’t been expecting Charlene, he would have known it was her by the way she thudded up the stairs. Light on her feet in her favourite heavy boots, she had the grace of a rusty robot in the court shoes she had to wear for work. He made sure that his laptop was closed, and that his notebook, with its pages of questions for his upcoming first interview with Joss Grand, was in his bag. It was for her own protection in more ways than one.

Charlene placed her latte on the table then threw herself down onto the banquette next to him.

‘Oh God, I’m
exhausted
.’

‘Hello, flower,’ he said, trying to ruffle her hair. She smacked his hand away. ‘Rough night?’

‘Dad slept through, but I was up all night stressing. We got a date through for his review. It’s at the end of the month.’

She drew a thrice-folded letter from her pocket and showed it to him. It stated that as part of wide-ranging government cuts, someone would be assessing Mr Mullins’s needs to see whether his current level of funding was appropriate.

‘What happens if they take the funding away?’

‘Then we’re completely fucked,’ said Charlene. ‘I leave work to become his full-time carer and we throw ourselves on the mercy of the state. This government. This
country
.’

‘
Shit
, Char. Can I do something to give you a break? I’ve got time on my hands. Can’t I sit in with him, get his dinner while you go out with your friends, or just go for a swim or round the shops, or something?’

‘Thanks, honey, but I don’t know if that would work. There’s a bit more to it than cooking for him. You’d have to feed him, for a start. He needs his catheter changing, he needs his drip changed. It’s got to be someone he knows, too, otherwise he gets quite distressed.’

Luke was aghast. He hadn’t known it was that bad.

Charlene’s phone trilled. ‘FUCK OFF,’ she shouted at it, before answering with a bright, ‘Joss Grand Property, Charlene speaking,’ and conducting a breezy conversation about the flat she was about to show. After ringing off, she looked at the clamshell of his laptop. ‘What are you working on, anyway? Any joy with the freelancing? If I can’t have a career, I want to have one vicariously through you.’

Knowing he’d made sure her job was safe lubricated the little white lie. ‘Oh, you know, still looking. This thing with Jem’s thrown me off a bit.’

‘I bet,’ she said. ‘Have you heard from him since he went into hospital?’

He shook his head. Char had enough on her plate without hearing about how deeply the suicide attempt – or rather, the suicide note finding Luke – had affected him. She didn’t need to know about his fear of the letterbox, the terror of the footsteps in the street that meant that the word had been made flesh, the torment of knowing that even if he moved, Jem would unearth him again.

They chatted for a while before saying goodbye with promises to see each other when Viggo came down, if not before. He finished her latte – disgusting, how did girls drink that shit? – and made another call.

‘Features.’

‘Aleeeexaaaaaaaa,’ he said, in a wheedling tone that he used to use to ask her to do a Starbucks run in the rain. This time she recognised his voice.

‘What is it now? Flat white with a shot of syrup?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know I hate syrup. No, I’m after one last favour.’

‘Hit me.’

‘Can you recommend a really good private investigator? Someone who can access the places my skills can’t reach?’

‘I know two brilliant ones,’ said Alexa. ‘Unfortunately they’re both currently being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Actually, there
is
someone I’ve been using lately who’s really good although God knows how he does it. Marcus McRae. Where is he, he’s somewhere in here.’ He heard her fingertips tap at a keyboard. ‘But listen, is this the same story you needed the electoral roll for? Who are you writing this for and why didn’t you come to me with it first?’

‘It’s not a commission. It’s research for a book.’

‘A
book
? That’s no good to me. Books take for ever. What’s it about?’

‘It’s a cold case from the sixties.’ He did not want to tell her any more in case she let something slip to Viggo or Charlene. ‘Possible love story element. I don’t know. Maybe. Depends what I come up with. I start interviewing tomorrow.’

‘Well, if you can make a story out of it along the way, you know where I am. Have you got a publisher?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Jesus, Luke, if this is all on spec, will you be footing the bill yourself? McRae doesn’t come cheap.’ She dictated the number anyway.

‘Thanks for the warning. And thanks for the tip.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Luke told McRae all he knew about Jasper Patten. The investigator seemed confident that he could find the man, although when he named his hourly fee, Luke felt sick. Hiring him for just two days would halve his savings. Feeling desperately unprofessional, he asked McRae whether it was possible to give him any idea of how long it would take. It was the sort of amateurish question he would have bristled at when he was an editor, yet he felt that McRae ought to know that he wasn’t a bottomless pit. ‘I only ask because I’m doing this off my own bat, I can’t put this on expenses, so if there’s any way you can keep the bill down . . .’

‘It costs what it costs,’ said McRae, and then, softening slightly, ‘Look, I’ll bear that in mind. My usual charges are for fast results. If you don’t mind waiting a bit longer, I can put you to the back of the queue. That’ll shave off a few quid.’

Luke was happy to agree. There was, after all, no urgency. It wasn’t like he was on a proper deadline. He hadn’t even told his agent yet. It was still very much at the speculative stage. And it was only money. He tinged his spoon against the empty cup, played with a packet of sugar and sighed, unable to kid himself for long.

Chapter 27

The old Woods tea set was laid out on the table, the kettle was boiling and Luke was suddenly desperately nervous. The minutes before a big interview were not unlike those leading up to a blind date. There was only so much you could do to prepare and the rest was dependent on luck and chemistry. You never knew which techniques would work, which skills you would be called upon to use. Either you gathered atmosphere through anecdote and hoped that the details rose up through the gaps between them, or you got people who dealt only in bald fact.

He took stock of his notes one last time while he waited for the Bentley to pull up outside. However benevolent Grand’s current reputation, there was in Brighton at least one person who was still terrified of him, although Luke did not know why. Sandy Quick would not answer his calls and to doorstep her again would feel like harassment. He had liked her too much to cause her further distress in the name of research and besides, he had enough experience of harassment to know that if he wanted her on side, he had to give her space.

Immediately Grand crossed the threshold, the cottage stopped feeling like Luke’s home and became Kathleen Duffy’s again. The older man paused to caress the mark by the front door where the Virgin had been, fingertips darting over the faded wallpaper like he was trying to read Braille and, for half a second, his face reprised the anguished look it had worn when he had learned of her death. He closed the eyes that seemed permanently to water, and when he opened them again, he had adjusted his face; his brow seemed broader and there was a jut to his jaw.

Luke had expected Vaughan to drop Grand off and return to pick him up when they had finished talking but the driver, or henchman as Luke now thought of him, was evidently to sit in on their interview. He perched on the armchair, turning it into doll’s house furniture. His hands were fists even at rest, balled loosely on his lap in silent warning, and his granite stare said that they were here against his better judgement. Luke offered up what he hoped was a smile of reassurance and sincerity; it hit Vaughan’s face with the fatal force of a fly on a windscreen. A blush crept over Luke’s skin, tightening it like sunburn. He turned his back to Vaughan and squared up to Grand. Checking that his phone was plugged into the charger – who knew how long they would be talking for? – he began.

‘Let’s start with the house you grew up in, shall we?’ This litmus question tested the interviewee’s descriptive powers; it might spark rambling recollections or a parroted address.

‘What about it?’ said Grand defensively. Luke smiled to cover his irritation. Why agree to be interviewed and then act as though you were a guilty man speaking under police caution?

‘Can you describe the interior? The wallpaper, the curtains? The furniture?’

Grand shot Vaughan an incredulous look.

‘What does it matter what colour my mum’s fucking curtains were?’

Luke’s blush spread to his hairline. ‘I’m just trying to get a bit of background, that’s all. No matter. We’ll get straight onto the other stuff. What’s your earliest memory?’

‘I don’t know. What’s yours?’

Luke breathed slowly through his nose and warned himself not to rush or push. He could rely on generic archive material for now and get the specifics from Grand when they knew each other better.