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I’d forgotten — until the phone call from the nice woman at the Registry Office reminded me. Now, I was sitting on a bench in Islington Green, staring at a brown envelope on my lap. The woman hadn’t given me any details, but the fact she had an envelope for me told me enough. With a sense that I was about to be damned for all eternity, I ripped it open.
Her name was Lydia Jane. Born to Michael James Hogan and Elizabeth Marie Hogan, née Walsh. I did a quick calculation. If she were alive, and please let that be the case, Lydia Jane would now be twenty-eight.
What now? I suppose I could see if her name was on a marriage certificate. But to be honest, I’d run out of steam. I simply couldn’t bring myself to pry any more. What earthly use would it be for me to know more about Big Man’s daughter? I slipped the certificate back in the envelope and schlepped home.
Where I sat round, stewing, until I couldn’t bear it any more.
‘He has a daughter.’
‘And you’re telling me this why?’ Gabriel Flynn enquired.
‘I had to tell someone. Or I’d burst.’
‘Have you ever seen someone burst? I have. One of my patients. They’d died in the bath and when I found them, they’d been there three weeks. When the ambulance crew tried to lift—’
‘Please stop.’
‘You started it!’
‘I’d given up on him,’ I confessed. ‘But now, I don’t know. It’s just that I have a hunch he hasn’t seen his daughter since he came out of jail. Possibly not even since he went in—’
‘His choice, I’d bet.’
‘Are you telling me I shouldn’t interfere?’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What would be the use of that?’
‘But where to from here?’ I almost wailed.
‘Ah!’ he said, suddenly. ‘Yes! I knew I had something to tell you. Not that I was going to make an effort to actually phone you or anything. But now that you’re on the line—’
‘Jeepers! What?’
‘The other week, I was invited to testify at the murder trial of a man who, as I stated in my professional opinion, was an unhinged sicko—’
‘You phrased it differently, of course.’
‘I did not, don’t interrupt. His lawyer, despite clearly having come to the same conclusion as myself, did a remarkably fine job of defending him. Not fine enough to get his client off the charge, for which nine year-old girls everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief, but enough to interest me in engaging him in discussion afterwards.’
I waited. ‘And—?’
‘His name is Desmond Richards. He was one who fought to have Michael Hogan acquitted.’
Desmond Richards lived in Holland Park, in the penthouse apartment of an imposing grey brick building.
‘My late wife had money,’ he informed me. ‘I’ve done well enough in my career. But not this well.’
We decided that it was, alas, too hot to sit out on the roof terrace and opted for the kitchen. I watched as he made me a lime and soda. He was not that much older than Big Man, around fifty-five, I guessed, and of average height with a lean, stringy build that reminded me a little of Tom. I wondered if Desmond Richards was a runner, too?
‘I haven’t seen Michael for years,’ he told me as he joined me at the kitchen table. ‘I saw him regularly, of course, while he was in jail. But once he was released — well, I was given the distinct impression he’d prefer me not to contact him.’
‘After all you did for him?’ I frowned.
‘I suspect he was embarrassed. I think he felt, somehow, that he was obliged to repay me. And he was at a loss to know how.’
‘Still—’
Desmond Richards offered me a small smile. ‘Well. As you’ve met him, you’ll have some idea that he is an intensely proud man. And, dear God, a stubborn one. He always reminded me of that P.G. Wodehouse story, where Lord Emsworth describes his Scottish head gardener as having all the ingredients of a first-class mule. Lord Emsworth decides that he would have liked the gardener better had he, in fact, been a mule. I confess I often felt the same way about Michael.’
‘You must have been very young when you defended him?’
‘Thank you for suggesting that I may look young now,’ he smiled. ‘I was young. It was not my first case, but it was my first big one.’
‘Did you know then that he was innocent?’
‘It was my job to assume that he was until proven otherwise. The evidence against him was mostly circumstantial. He was found in possession of the murder weapon. His fingerprints were on it. Whether he had been holding it at the time of the murder was never proven. But then, it didn’t really have to be. His manner on the stand was what damned him. Lord knows I tried to work around it, bring the jury back to the facts. But to no avail.’
My hunch had been right. ‘I’d already suspected he wasn’t the most sympathetic defendant—’
Desmond Richards gave a shout of laughter. ‘Dear God, no! I think the Nuremberg judiciary had more sympathy for Reichsmarschall Göring than that jury had for Michael!’ He shook his head. ‘I lost my temper with him so many times. I simply could not understand why he would not help himself. I may as well have bashed my head repeatedly on the prison wall for all the good it did me.’
His shoulders slumped. I well understood why. Big Man made head bashing seem like quite a good option. Certainly a less painful one.
‘So how did you find out he hadn’t done it? If he never spoke to you?’
‘It was his daughter—’
My heart gave a guilty lurch. But I kept quiet.
‘She was seven at the time. A very bright, very articulate little girl. Her mother, Michael’s wife, Beth, had been a school teacher. I think Lydia benefited from that.’ He frowned. ‘Not to say that Michael lacks intelligence, as he most certainly does not. But he was also a man of his time — and place, I suppose. More liable to settle arguments with his fists than with words.’
‘So he was violent?’ I broke in. ‘Did he hit his wife?’
Desmond Richards looked shocked. ‘No! Never! I apologise — that was a careless sentence. Michael never lifted his hand to a woman. However, his size did make him a target for other men who wanted to, let’s say, prove themselves. By all accounts, he usually refused to react. Unfortunately, the night before the murder was one of the few occasions when he did.’
I recalled that the alleged motivation for the murder had been a sexual assault on Big Man’s wife.
‘He had a fight with the victim?’
‘In the local pub. The victim, a crawling low-life by all accounts, received a broken nose and a fractured jaw before Michael was pulled off him. The jury decided Michael wasn’t satisfied to leave it at that, and that he went to the victim’s flat the following night to finish it.’
‘But he didn’t. And his daughter knew that?’
‘As I said, she was a very bright and articulate young lady. It was a shame that she did not choose to speak up until after the trial...’
He placed both his hands around the glass in front of him, as if its cool, dewy surface was comforting.
‘The day after the verdict had been pronounced, Lydia and her mother came to my chambers,’ he continued. ‘Beth had come to thank me for all I’d done. It had not been easy for her. She and Michael had separated; the trial proved too much for their marriage. I know she regretted deeply what had happened, and indeed felt partially responsible—’
Something like embarrassment crossed his face. ‘Beth Hogan was a smart, good-hearted woman. I liked her immensely. She confided that she intended to take Lydia away for a fresh start, and wanted to know what I thought of that. I told her I thought Michael would agree that their daughter was the first priority.’
How did Lydia feel about that decision now, I wondered suddenly? Did she regret she’d never had a say in the matter? Or was she glad of the distance put between her and her convict father?
I tuned back in, as Desmond Richards continued with his story. ‘Beth left Lydia with me for a few minutes, while she went to the bathroom. Lydia picked up a picture book that was lying on my desk, which I’d intended as a present for my niece. She said, “That’s the book Daddy was reading that night. He fell asleep, the silly. I’m the one who’s supposed to fall asleep.” I asked her what night. I was simply making childish conversation, but she replied, “The night before the police came.” I must admit, I jumped as if she’d stuck me with a pin. I asked her what time she went to bed and she told me seven-thirty. I asked if she could remember how long her father had slept for. I knew I was grasping at straws, but, my God, she said, “He was squashing me, so I woke up. I went to get some water. I saw the clock. It said twelve-oh-oh. That’s midnight!”
‘She was so proud of herself. I, on the other hand, was so agitated, I could barely bring myself to ask the next question: had he been asleep the whole time? She answered without hesitation. Yes. Because he wasn’t allowed to sleep on her bed any more. He’d done it once when he was drunk, she told me, and her mother had given him such what-for that if he’d woken up he wouldn’t dare come back to her bed; he’d go to his own. He was asleep the whole time. She was sure of it.’
‘And the murder was committed—?’
‘Between eleven and twelve.’
We were both silent, locked in our thoughts.
‘She could have been mistaken?’ I ventured. ‘She was only seven.’
‘I know. I kept telling myself that. But on the day Michael was sentenced, I finally summoned the courage to repeat to him what his daughter had said. To my shock, he grabbed me two-handed by my collar and slammed me into the wall. “You leave her out of this”, he demanded. “You don’t talk to her, you don’t go near her! Understand?” All I could do was nod.’
That sounded like Big Man, I thought. Subtle. Considered.
Desmond Richards met my eye. ‘And it was then I decided to re-examine the evidence against him.’
‘Even though he’d slammed you against a wall?’
‘Because he’d slammed me against a wall.’ He made a wry face. ‘As a lawyer, I am averse to hunches. But I saw, in his eyes . . .’
‘What did you see?’
‘Fear. That his secret had been revealed.’
I threw up my hands. ‘But why? Why did he take the blame? Who did he take it for?’
‘I’ve never found the answer to that question. The acquittal was on the grounds that the conviction was unsafe, that the judge and jury had ignored vital evidence. Forensic testing had found fingerprints on the murder weapon — a golf club, if you’re wondering — that were not Michael’s. The same fingerprints were in the victim’s flat. At the flat, there had clearly been a struggle and there was blood present that was neither the victim’s nor Michael’s. The prosecution had argued that the victim was a known felon, who consorted with other felons not averse to casual violence. That was potentially true. What tipped the balance was that there was not a trace of blood on Michael when they arrested him in the morning. At the time, this was put down to the fact he’d changed his clothes and showered. I was able to prove that he had not. I was also able to prove that it is nigh-on impossible to beat someone to death with a golf club and escape unmarked.’
‘And you never found out whose blood, or whose fingerprints?’
‘There was no match found in the police database. And before you ask — they were not Beth’s, either.’
A thought struck me. ‘But where was she that night? Why wasn’t she at home, too?’
Desmond Richards shot me a look. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But let’s be clear. I have also never wanted to find out.’
This time, Mick Jagger’s was the only voice I heard as I opened my front door. Brown Sugar was rocking out loud from the courtyard. Normally, the boys kept the volume down. But I guessed they knew I was out—
Drawn partly by curiosity and mostly by a strong need for the comfort of tea, I headed straight down to the kitchen.
‘I’m no schoolb—’ Tyso bustled out, saw me, and halted in mid-not-very-tuneful song. His gaze dropped immediately to his scuffed boots.
‘’m sorry,’ he muttered.
I’m not sure his father would have considered it an entirely adequate apology, but I wasn’t so mean as to make the boy squirm any longer than necessary.
‘No problem.’
I nodded towards the speaker. ‘So some of the old music’s not too bad then?’
Tyso’s eyes widened. ‘Is this old?’
Smiling, I shook my head. ‘There is no hope for you.’
Then Anselo moved into view. I took a deep breath and stood in his way.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean it. I was angry.’
He stopped, his stance and expression wary.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ I said again. ‘Truly.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Now, he looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I gave you such hard time.’
It was only then that I noticed he was gripping his finger and wincing. And that there seemed to be really quite a lot of blood. ‘God! What did you do?’
‘Sliced it against the saw.’ He saw my face. ‘It wasn’t going. Blade’s still sharp enough, though.’
‘Let me see—?’
It wasn’t such a deep cut that it needed stitches, but it was bleeding like the blood had been waiting for just this chance to make a break for freedom.
‘Run it under the cold tap,’ I instructed. ‘I’ll grab the first aid kit.’
I was fastening the gauze bandage around his finger when I noticed his shirt. ‘Oh my God, it’s everywhere! Are you sure the saw wasn’t going?’
‘Splatter!’ said Tyso, who was in the doorway, grinning. ‘Chainsaw massacre!’
Anselo glanced down. ‘It’s not that bad.’
I made a face. ‘It is. You look like you’ve been slaughtering a pig.’
‘I don’t have a spare,’ he told me. ‘It’s in the wash.’
‘I have one—’ And in two minutes, I was back with Captain Awesome.
Anselo saw the shirt and gave me a faint smile. ‘You were wearing this that morning.’
My cheeks flushed bright pink. If he recalled the t-shirt, he probably also recalled the underwear. And the knees—
Anselo’s smile widened. ‘Thanks,’ he said. And with a single, swift, one-handed movement, he took his own bloodstained shirt up over his head and off.
I have to confess, I had a little moment. His upper body was quite simply spectacular. I don’t know if it was a result of time at the gym or the physical nature of his work, but every single muscle was taut and defined. Not in that glistening meat-pack way you see in the ab machine infomercials. Just nicely firm, and set off by flawlessly smooth olive skin.
In my head, I was Roger Rabbit — eyeballs bugging on springs accompanied by a horn going ‘A-ooo-ga!’ But, and boy, was I proud of myself, I managed to look him in the eye and breathe normally, as if half-naked, ripped Romani men were ten a penny.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Tys—’ Anselo nodded.
‘What?’
‘The door!’
‘Did he just mutter “I’m not your slave”?’ I grinned at Anselo.
‘If he did, he’s dead wrong.’
Voices at the door shifted Anselo’s gaze over my shoulder. He face fell. ‘Shit—’
I swivelled round and almost hit the ceiling. ‘My God!’
It was Marcus. My heart began to pound, and I couldn’t tell whether it was joy or nerves. Was he really here? Was he staying—?
Marcus’ gaze travelled between me and the half-naked Anselo, and then rested on my hand, still clutching Captain Awesome.
‘Bad moment?’ he asked.
Anselo, without haste, took the t-shirt from my grasp. ‘Thanks,’ he said again. And with barely a passing glance at Marcus, he strolled back into the courtyard.
Marcus’ eyes lingered a fraction too long on Anselo’s shirtless, well-muscled back. There was a touch of the sulks around his mouth, from which I concluded that in the Marcus–Anselo macho-off, it was now one-all.
‘Next time,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you some warning.’
‘No!’
The reality of his presence had sunk in. He really was here!
‘No warning required!’ I wrapped my arms around his neck. ‘It’s brilliant to see you! You’ve made my day!’
‘Well—’ He grinned, clearly chuffed by the eagerness of my response. ‘In that case . . .’
He pulled me to him and kissed me deeply and with an overt use of tongue. Suddenly, I became aware that Anselo would almost certainly be watching, and that Marcus without any doubt knew that and was showing off. The thought made me very uncomfortable. So I broke away.
‘Come along—’ I took his hand. ‘Privacy’s not that overrated.’
‘Aren’t we going upstairs?’ he frowned, as I led him towards the living room.
‘There are people in the house!’ I was blushing, which made me even more uncomfortable.
‘So? There were over fifty people in my mother’s house, and I don’t recall you letting that constrain you.’
‘It was a big house,’ I muttered. ‘The people weren’t directly below.’
He blew out a breath. ‘Darrell, I managed to find this tiny window of opportunity. If I have to take you to a hotel, that window will shrink to the point where I may as well kiss you goodbye now and be done with it.’
I could almost hear Anselo. Why do you do it? Why do you let them treat you any way they like?
But what could I do? What choice did I have? If I refused, Marcus would leave—
‘All right. But can you try not to make it bloody obvious where we’re going?’
He grinned. ‘What do you take me for?’
In the bedroom, he wasted no time. I would have preferred a little more lead-up, but I suppose he was working to a schedule. As it happened, we ended with time to spare. Less than three minutes into it, he abruptly withdrew and, grimacing, reached down to grab the base of his erection.
‘Oh, Christ—’ he muttered. ‘Sorry—’
And he shoved himself back inside me and came.
‘Shit . . .’ He rolled off and sank onto his back. ‘Well, that will teach me.’
I spooned into him. ‘Teach you?’
‘Not to fantasise compulsively about having sex with you.’ He offered me an apologetic smile.
‘Do you?’ I was insanely flattered.
‘Then again,’ he sighed, ‘it’s really your fault. You shouldn’t write such exciting little books.’
I sat up so fast, I almost took his eye out with my elbow. ‘What? What do you mean?’
He smiled, amused. He was enjoying teasing me.
‘Seems we have a mutual friend. Well—’ He made a face. ‘Friend is overstating it. A mutual acquaintance.’
I gazed at him, dumbly. I had no idea who he could possibly mean. Unless—
‘Hippolyte McManus,’ he announced. ‘Name ring a bell? Don’t deny it. There can hardly be two of them. Thank Christ.’
Oh my God. ‘How did you—?’
‘Meet her? I haven’t yet; we’ve only spoken by phone. She works for the publishing house that has now bought the English language rights to my little French star’s book.’
He worked his jaw. ‘I have to negotiate with them as well, now. The fuckers are pushing the price up, which is making me very, very displeased.’
I felt my breathing start to go haywire with panic. ‘Does that mean you’ll be going to New York?’ New York was a lot further away than Paris.
‘Absolutely not! That would suggest I was desperate! No, at this stage, phone calls only. Though I swear,’ he added darkly, ‘if she employs the phrase “It’s been real” one more time, I will be on a plane to New York. And I will go to her office, take her down to the Hudson and hold her head under until the bubbles stop.’
I frowned. ‘But — how on earth did you and she get to talking about me?’
‘Oh, I was buttering her up,’ he said, casually. ‘Flattering her into believing I thought her intelligent. Somehow we got onto women authors with male-sounding names. I was able to list quite a swag of them. George Eliot. Richmal Crompton. Carson McCullers. Harper Lee. Hippolyte listed you.’
He hauled himself into a sitting position next to me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded. ‘I almost fell off my bloody chair when she said your name!’
‘I don’t know . . .’
He began to nuzzle my neck. ‘Were you embarrassed?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You should be. My God. Silken hardness? Nipple-biting?’
I shoved him off me. ‘Did you read one?’
He grinned at me, unabashed. ‘Of course! I went and hunted one down as soon as I got off the phone!’
‘Oh . . .’ I grabbed a pillow and held it over my flaming face.
‘There was moaning in it,’ I heard the bastard continue. ‘And sobbing with need. Not to mention feverish, demanding writhing—’
He prised one hand off the pillow and placed it on himself. ‘As you see, it had a terrible effect on my towering male strength.’
My voice was muffled by the pillow. ‘I thought you didn’t have much time?’
He jumped. ‘Shit!’ He reached across me and grabbed his watch. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
And he leapt out of bed and began to throw on his clothes.
I didn’t bother to get up. What was the point?
Shirt still partly unbuttoned, tie in hand, he leaned down and brushed a hasty kiss across my mouth.
‘Sorry, angel. That was a poor show on my part. Promise I’ll make it up to you.’
He blew a kiss from the bedroom doorway. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Again, more generous than I deserve—’
I heard him clatter down the stairs, and slam the front door. His footsteps clipped quickly along the path below my window, and I listened as they faded up the street until I was absolutely sure I could no longer hear them.