Authors: Elena Forbes
Evil in Return (33 page)
38
‘So, what’s up?’ he asked, passing Donovan a diet coke and sitting down opposite with a double vodka and soda. He wasn’t driving and had decided he needed something strong to buoy him up in what was going to be a difficult conversation.
She sipped the coke and said nothing, avoiding his eye. They were in a bar he knew on the Goldhawk Road, close to where he lived, that stayed open late. It was half full even at that time of night and the music was loud, which gave him some cover. He had no desire to make a scene but he was determined to have it out with her. He couldn’t let things go any longer.
In the middle of all the mayhem earlier, Steele had pulled him into an empty meeting room and closed the door behind them. ‘What’s all this I hear about Sam wanting to leave?’ she had asked hurriedly. They were standing just inside the room, Steele with her back to the door, hands on her hips as though she meant business. He had stared at her dumbfounded. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly. I have her letter of resignation in my bag.’
He had struggled to take it in, thinking that there must be some sort of a misunderstanding. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘But you say she wants to leave?’
‘That’s right. So you know nothing about this, no reason why?’
He had shaken his head.
‘Anything going on in her personal life? Her family OK?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘What about a boyfriend?’
‘There’s nobody around at the moment, from what she’s said.’
‘That figures. And you haven’t done something to upset her?’
‘Me?’
‘I mean, this isn’t something personal between the two of you, something I need to know about? So long as I know, I can deal with it. Maybe . . .’
He held up his hand. ‘Hang on. Stop right there. Are you asking if Sam and I are . . . well . . .’
She folded her arms. ‘That’s exactly what I’m asking. Whatever you get up to in private is your business, but when it affects a member of my team, I have to know.’
‘Whatever I get up to? Jesus, I can’t believe this. What do you think I am? Some sort of cheap office Don Giovanni?’
‘I wasn’t thinking cheap and you haven’t answered my question.’
He took a deep breath, trying to hold back his anger. ‘Nothing has happened between Sam and me. OK? Nothing has ever happened.’
She nodded slowly. ‘OK. I’m sorry, but I had to ask. I mean it’s obvious to everyone the girl’s in love with you.’
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘That’s rubbish.’
‘No, Mark, it’s not. I thought maybe you’d finally . . .’ She spread her hands in a woman of the world fashion as though whatever it was he was supposed to have done would have been the most natural thing in the world. ‘I mean, these things happen. After all, we’re . . .’
She said something about their being only human, which would have been an interesting comment coming from her in another context. He sank down on the edge of a nearby table, tuning out the rest of what she was saying, and rubbed his face slowly with his hands. In love with him? Did she really feel that strongly? Nobody apart from Nicoletta, whose opinion he had discounted, had ever said anything to him on the subject, let alone spelled it out so bluntly. But he recognised the truth of it now. Perhaps he had known instinctively all along. He had just chosen to ignore it out of convenience. He felt guilty, thoughts flashing through everything he had ever said and done, wondering if he should have acted differently. Even though he might have given mixed signals, he hadn’t done so deliberately. His feelings just weren’t consistent. And they were both adults. He cared about her more than words could say, but love? Was it really love? A brother’s love, maybe, but more than that he didn’t think so. He looked up and met Steele’s eye.
‘OK,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I can see this is all news to you. I suggest you have a think, then speak to her. You know her better than anyone here, or so I thought. You sort out this mess, try and convince her to stop being so silly, and let me know. Until then, I won’t do anything with her letter.’
The music changed to a song by Jay Sean he knew Donovan liked but there was no sign that she had even heard it. She stared vacantly into the middle distance, lost in her thoughts. He took a slug of vodka, then put the glass down. In normal circumstances, he would have taken hold of her hand and made her look at him, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea.
‘Sam, there’s no point pretending things are OK. I hear you want to leave. Why didn’t you tell me?’
She shrugged. ‘I was going to.’
‘But Carolyn knew first. What’s going on? I thought you and I were close.’
She shifted in her seat, still avoiding his eye. ‘It’s lots of little things. I’ve just had enough, that’s all. No big deal.’
‘No big deal? How can you say that? What sort of little things?’ She said nothing. ‘Come on, after everything we’ve been through together, at least you can tell me.’
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself as though cold and shifted her gaze to a far corner of the room. ‘Let’s say I’m just feeling a little disillusioned.’
‘Disillusioned? Can’t you be more specific? This is all so sudden. I just want to try and understand.’
She wasn’t usually the judgemental sort, but at the back of his mind was the nagging certainty that she had guessed what had gone on between him and Anna Paget. Not that she would tell anyone. He knew he could trust her, but what must she think of him? He also wondered what her view was of the conversation she had overheard in the car between him and Alex Fleming and all the moral issues it raised. She would know intuitively what had really gone on, the version that nobody would ever hear. They usually saw things as one, but now he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had crossed too many lines.
‘Come on, Sam. Talk to me. I’m your friend, remember?’
She looked up at him. He saw the emotion in her eyes, the awkward tightening of her mouth, and realised he had said the wrong thing. For a moment she didn’t speak. Then she sighed, as though tired of the whole conversation, letting her arms fall limply to her sides.
‘Yes, you’re my friend, Mark. But why can’t you understand? I’ve just come to the end of the line. I’ve had enough and I need a fresh start. It’s nothing personal.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better be going.’
‘Don’t you want to finish your drink?’
‘No, I’m tired. I want to go home. Do you want a lift? It’s still raining.’
Seeing she meant it, he got to his feet. Nothing personal. It was the opposite of what it was, he realised. She had come to the end of the line with him and he felt shaken.
‘It’s OK. I’ll walk. I could do with the fresh air and I don’t mind a bit of rain.’
On impulse, he grabbed hold of her hand and looked deep into her eyes, wishing that he could say something to persuade her to stay. ‘Sam, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.’
Holding his gaze, she nodded. ‘I know you are.’
He wondered if she understood what he really meant. He let go of her hand. There was so much unsaid between them, where should he start? She gave a little wave, then turned and walked away, picking her way through the crowded room to the door. She didn’t look around. He watched her go, feeling as though he had lost something precious. But there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t solve the problem. He sank back down in his chair and drained his glass in one, letting the buzz of the room envelop him as he enjoyed the kick of the alcohol. He felt sadder than he had done in a very long time. A part of him still couldn’t believe that she could just cut loose like that and he waited a few minutes, hoping that maybe she’d return. But she didn’t. He stared down at his empty glass. He put it to his lips and sucked it dry, crunching the last fragments of ice. Maybe he would find a way.
What to do now? He’d better go home, put on some music and get slaughtered. If nothing else, it would block things out temporarily. To hell with the hangover.
As he got to his feet, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. ‘Hi there, Mark,’ a chirpy female voice said in his ear. He turned around. It wasn’t Donovan but a blonde-haired girl in a short, figure-hugging black dress. ‘Remember me? Christy, from next door?’
He nodded vaguely, struggling to recognise her. Dressed as she was, with make-up, and her hair miraculously poker-straight, she looked transformed from the other morning, somehow older and more sophisticated. He wasn’t sure which version he preferred. ‘I hope the coffee helped.’
‘Like magic. I couldn’t trouble you for another ciggie could I? None of them smoke.’ She jerked her head towards a large table near the window where he saw his neighbours, Janelle and Becs, amongst a group of women. They seemed to be having a good time, talking and laughing, with a table full of glasses in front of them. They must have been sitting there all along, he just hadn’t noticed, he’d been so wrapped up in the conversation with Donovan.
‘Of course. Here you are.’ He felt in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.
‘Why don’t you come and have one too?’ she said with a smile. ‘You look like you need cheering up and I’m dying to hear about what you do. Janelle tells me you’re a detective.’
He hesitated. He really ought to go home, but the thought of sheltering under the awning outside for a smoke and a chat with her wasn’t unappealing.
‘You’re on your own, aren’t you?’ she added, before he had thought of an excuse. ‘I mean, your friend’s gone, hasn’t she?’
Was it that obvious? Although anyone glancing over at him and Donovan would probably have seen that something was amiss. He was about to say that he was on his way out but, feeling churlish, changed his mind. He noticed that the glass dangling from her hand was almost empty. ‘I’ll join you for a smoke, but can I get you another drink first?’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a Snakie.’
‘A Snakie?’
‘A Snake Bite. Fosters, cider and grenadine. They’ll know what it is at the bar.’
‘That sounds a pretty lethal combination.’
She grinned. ‘It is.’
‘I’ll see you outside in a minute, then.’ He handed her the cigarettes and lighter, still wondering if he was doing the right thing. As he made his way towards the bar, he decided to stick with vodka, maybe another double for good measure. It was already having a pleasant, numbing effect. There was nothing he could do for the moment about Sam and perhaps there were better ways of blotting out what had happened than going home on his own and getting pissed.
Acknowledgements
Thanks are due to a number of people for their time and expert advice, as well as apologies for my having wilfully ignored it on occasion in the interest of fiction. Any errors are entirely mine. Consultant Senior Investigating Officer David Niccol, from the Metropolitan Police, and Forensic Consultant Tracy Alexander deserve particular mention, not least for their patience, good humour and excellent company. I would also like to thank DI Mike Christensen and Dr Peter Jerreat, Accredited Home Office Pathologist, for their invaluable help. Thanks also go to Henry Worsley and Tuggy Meyer for furthering the story with some very useful and thought-provoking insights, as well as to Lisanne Radice, Louise Heyes, Jay Roos, of the Brompton Cemetery, Richard Williams, and the real Mark Tartaglia. As ever, I am grateful for the support of my fellow writers and crime aficionados Cass Bonner, Gerry O’Donovan, Richard Holt, Keith Mullins, Kathryn Skoyles, Nicola Williams and Margaret Kinsman. Lastly, special thanks go to my fabulous agent Sarah Lutyens and her team, to my wonderful editor Jane Wood and everyone at Quercus, and to Stephen Georgiadis, a great copy editor manqué.
About the Author
ELENA FORBES
is the author of the Mark Tartaglia Mystery Series. The first novel in the series,
Die With Me
, was a finalist for the Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey New Blood Dagger; and the second novel,
Our Lady of Pain
, was a
Globe and Mail
Top 10 Crime Book, and a
National Post
pick for Best Crime Fiction. She lives in London, England, with her husband and children.
About the Publisher
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, and 2010, Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”