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The terrible twins, Dad used to call me and Freddie. Not that we were in many ways terrible, just that we were always together. If we weren’t out scouring the tracks around the golf course for stray balls we could sell back to the golfers, we were at the bottom of the quarry about half a mile up the mountain behind Fred’s house, shooting at drinks cans with his dad’s pellet gun and pretending we were Tubbs and Crockett or Bo and Luke Duke. If we were indoors, it was at mine, because Fred had three older sisters at his place who he was a lot less enamoured with than I was, and besides, being an only kid meant I was the one whose parents would fork out for the latest Atari or Commodore, and my games were brand new, not hand-me-downs or copies like Fred’s. The pair of us were inseparable. It wasn’t until well into our comp school years that things started taking a different trajectory.
Freddie had always been a good-looking kid, but by fourteen, fifteen, he was growing into his bones and had a comfortable way of talking around the girls that drew them to him. I, on the other hand, not having had the privilege of any siblings, let alone female ones, was more awkward, and so less of an attractive prospect. All credit to Fred, he took full advantage of his natural good fortune, which meant we were less in each other’s pockets after that. But we stayed close, knowing that we were on the same path in life; we both wanted to join up and that’s what we did, both of us at the same time. There was a period of a few years where he took a job with the traffic police east of the border, but he missed the diversity of the beat, and when an opening came up with us, he couldn’t get back fast enough. By then, he’d already met Lisa and I’d already married Ange, and it seemed like the settling down and starting a family thing was what it was all about.
That worked out for Ange and me. She got pregnant quickly. Quicker than we’d planned, in fact, but we didn’t tell anyone that, and nine months later we had the baby we’d wanted. Because I had been an only child, and Ange had been a foster kid growing up in difficult circumstances and volatile environments, we never wanted more than the one. So our family was complete. Not so for Fred and Lisa. After twelve years, two miscarriages, repeated tests, and three rounds of failed IVF treatments, the pair decided their life had been on hold for long enough, and left the whole idea behind them. Or that was how they put it, anyway.
For Fred that’s meant working harder, aiming higher, making the most of what he’s got, not what he hasn’t. I couldn’t speak for Lisa, I’m sure Ange knows more about that than I do. But over the years something’s changed in Fred, in some subtle way it’s hard to put my finger on. A lot of the time he’s the same Freddie I’ve always known, my mate, my terrible twin. Other times, he throws me a look that I can only take for disappointment. But about what, I’ve no idea. If I knew, we could have it out. As it is, it means being around him isn’t always what I want any more. Like right now, as I turn the car into the street and the black Lexus is parked in Ange’s spot.
I pull up beside the pavement, glancing in the rear-view mirror to push my fingers through my hair, straighten my shirt. With the blazer and tie in my hand, I get out of the car and brace myself with a deep breath before I walk up the drive.
‘How’d it go?’
Freddie Dalston is leaning against his front bumper with his arms and ankles crossed. He’s in jeans and a polo shirt, which means his shift has finished, or not started, or it’s his day off, but whichever way, this is a social call.
‘As you’d expect.’ I stop when I get to him and wonder if we can have this visit without me having to invite him over the doorstep. ‘Surprised you remembered.’
His features collapse into a you-got-me smile, and he points at the blazer in my hand. ‘The fancy get-up was the reminder.’
‘Right.’
‘Another one done and dusted,’ he says, with a firm nod of the head, like he’s encouraging me to agree, setting it up for me to toe the line, prove I’ve already forgotten about it. But I say nothing, just wait for him to explain what he’s doing here.
‘Look, Steve.’ He gets up from the car and drops his hands into his pockets. ‘Lisa and I, we want you to know we’re here for you all. Whatever this is with you and Ange, it’s only temporary, right? I mean, you two, and Dan, you’re like...’
He wants me to butt in, to rescue him from the floundering mess he’s making. That’s what happens when you don’t have all the facts. Something I’ve been learning the hard way.
‘If there’s anything we can do, mate. Anything at all to help you sort this out.’
It doesn’t take him long to realise he’s not getting more than my nod of acknowledgement. None of the juicy details he’s after. Or at least not my side of the story, I’m sure they’ve already got Ange’s. Maybe Lisa sent him over to put a word in my ear, tell me to stop being a bastard, get a grip, think of my family. I could imagine that; how Lisa might turn if she thought her friend was being shat on from a great height.
‘Hear about Right Guard?’ he asks, in a way that’s difficult to detect if it’s a genuine question or a leading one.
‘Heard someone finally did him over.’
He clicks his tongue against his teeth. ‘Did himself over actually.’
‘Right. Yeah.’
I look down the street, remembering Smithy’s frustration and how it had passed to me, my skin prickling with it.
‘No, really. Death by Smirnoff. Forensics found the cigarette that did the damage. Sparked out after sparking up, so to speak, wouldn’t have felt a thing. Burned to oblivion in his sleep, poor bastard.’
I shift from one foot to the other, my palms sweating under the grip of the blazer in my hands. ‘I heard he’d been having some trouble from Zippo. CID point in his direction?’
The sarge flicks his eyebrows. ‘Well now, that’s a whole other story. Someone did him over big time. If he ever wakes up, he’ll be pissing through a tube the rest of his life and bingeing Homes Under the Hammer – a prison sentence all of its own. One less for the books, I suppose, but no, Right Guard’s post-mortem showed he had a blood alcohol level that would anaesthetise a small stallion. Besides that, our twisted fire-starter was on the other side of town at his mother’s 70th birthday knees-up in the rugby club. Facebook pictures of the scrawny prick with his paws all over some blonde on the dance floor prove it. Probably trying to get into her knickers, the creep. Always the classy one. It’ll be the bird’s boyfriend or ex or husband who did him over, I expect.’
Bile hits my throat and it takes a lot for me to force it back down. My mouth is dry, my pulse racing and head light, and any minute now Fred will know something’s up, but I can’t help it. I’m thinking of the meeting at the docks with Tom Faraday, the disguise I wore so I wouldn’t be recognised, the baton for protection just in case negotiations turned unpleasant, the long walk I’d made to where I knew the brothers hung out, leaving my car out of sight, the deposit I paid him in cash, and then the thousands I transferred from Mum and Dad’s inheritance savings to an offshore business account the next day when the job was done. All enough to cover my tracks, I thought, but only if no one goes digging. Only if no one cares. Even then, knowing it was still a risk, because every contact leaves a trace. How many times are we told that? It’s meant to make us keep looking for the evidence that can get us a conviction. It’s not meant to warn us how careful we need to be when committing criminal activities. But what other choice did I have? It was either me or Smithy, and anyway this was a chance to fix what needed fixing with no one being any the wiser. Smithy was right – Right Guard’s death was about to be swept under the carpet, and this was a way of making sure justice was served; not just for Right Guard, but for the six-month-old baby who’d lain temporarily lifeless on the lawn, her mouth and nose blackened by smoke, her tiny sleepsuit melting into her skin, an image I still recall with every vivid detail.
But all of that was for nothing if I was wrong. Again, wrong.
‘So you inviting me in for coffee or am I going home alone?’ Freddie teases.
I glance to the house. ‘I’m just grabbing some things for Dan,’ I lie, hoping he’ll take the hint and fuck off right about now, because I need to sit down before I fall.
‘Actually, Steve, the reason I came...’ His hand goes to his mouth, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip. ‘Mate, can we go inside?’
‘I’m in a rush.’
Fred’s cool blue eyes freeze over. The humour’s fading fast and he’s getting tired of being batted off, but I don’t care, I want him gone. It’s only the breeze on my cheeks that’s reminding me I’m not completely numb all over.
‘Alright.’ He folds his arms, feet planted. ‘I came here to give you the heads-up so you’ll be ready when you’re back on shift tomorrow.’
‘Ready for what?’
He glances over my shoulder. It’s brief, but enough for me to think perhaps we should do this inside after all. If I’m about to drop, I don’t want it to be here on the driveway.
‘A complaint’s been made, Steve. About you.’
I gasp out the breath I’ve been holding and bury it under my irritation. ‘Christ, who is it this time? Russell’s taken offence at my hairstyle? Clay doesn’t like the way I eat my lunch?’
‘A formal complaint, Steve. From a member of the public.’
His face is deadly straight, serious enough for me to feel the ground under me shift a little more, the air grow too heavy to breathe. I don’t show him any of this, at least I hope I don’t, but I do need to sit. I force my feet to take me up the driveway to the front door, will my hand not to shake as I find the lock with the key, all the time running through the possibilities in my head...
Zippo’s awake and somehow knows the order given to the Faraday brothers came from me and now he’s spilling all in an effort to wipe me off his radar for good, get me back for ending his run last year. Or maybe the Faraday brothers themselves, playing some kind of bargaining game – ‘I’ll give you one of your coppers, if you lose that outstanding conviction I’ve got, Officer.’
Or what about Cranky? Might he have found out who I am and said I coerced him into selling weed? A long shot, perhaps, but petty criminals weren’t known for their intelligence, and if they could get one over on a cop, it would be like their Christmas and Easter just rolled into one.
Maybe it was none of those. Maybe it was grieving Mary Johnson, upset that I’d shown my face at the memorial service when she couldn’t bear to see another copper without losing her stomach.
Shit, it could be Craig, Tricia’s ex. Yeah, that would be something he’d do, accuse me of getting heavy-handed with him in his own home. It had to be Craig.
I throw the blazer and tie on the stairs, let Freddie close the door and follow me into the sitting room where I perch on the edge of the armchair. His face is a picture when he steps in after me. He’s looking at the empty beer bottles on the table, last night’s takeaway cartons or the night before that, I don’t remember. If not for Anna’s memorial service, I wouldn’t know what day it is.
‘I left in a rush,’ I say, knowing that he’s getting it all wrong, drawing conclusions to take home to his missus and back to Ange.
He draws back the curtains and opens the window. I sniff, but can’t smell anything, and conclude he’s just laying on the drama; he can be good at making a point when he wants. He takes a seat on the sofa, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. Dust motes drift through the air between us.
‘Look, Steve, I’m not supposed to be here telling you this.’
‘A heads-up, so you said. Who is it?’
He’s giving me that disappointed stare again, albeit a little less nuanced and more like he wants to throttle me. I glare right back and will him to get to the point because I need him gone, I need to think, I need... I don’t know what I need, but it’s not this.
‘Man called Adrian Simons.’
‘What?’
‘Said you accosted him at his place of work, threw some obscene accusations at him.’
Simons. I push my hand through my hair while I think about that. I never told him who I was, and he was gone when I got back to the car. He must have noted the reg number of the Focus and dug around from there.
‘Accosted is a strong word,’ I say.
‘Then what was it?’
‘And the accusations were based on knowledge I had at the time.’
‘He also said you caused criminal damage to his vehicle.’
Sly bastard, that was weeks before. He couldn’t have known that was me.
‘Not true,’ I say, peering up at my old friend and seeing he doesn’t believe me. ‘I wasn’t on duty, Fred. It was a personal matter.’
‘Bullshit. This is about Anna Johnson.’
‘It’s about a man I thought might have been using his position to have inappropriate relations with vulnerable students.’
‘Thought?’
‘I had evidence at the time.’
‘What evidence?’
I just need to see you. I miss you.
‘That doesn’t matter now.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Steve?’
‘It turned out to be misleading.’
‘So you fucked up.’
‘No! I just... Was making enquiries. For my own peace of mind.’
My voice echoes around the room and through my head. For the first time in days, my scalp throbs where the stitches haven’t completely dissolved. I reach up and touch the spot where the hair’s growing back now but still leaves an indent, like the patch of pathetic grass that’s left behind after you shift something heavy which has been laying there among all the lusher, greener stuff for too long.
‘Did you cross a line, Steve?’ Freddie asks, quiet enough that I can hear it’s not what he wants to ask, nor what he wants to know the answer to.
I stare at the floor, thinking of Tricia, the night we spent together and the next morning, pressing her against the tiles of the shower, closing my eyes and seeing Anna. Ange’s hurt as we left the restaurant, the same hurt I see on the face of my sergeant now, my friend. Did I cross a line? I crossed a few. The question is why?
‘Listen, mate,’ he says, shifting on the sofa so he’s angled towards me. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here. But something’s fucked, Steve. You look like shit—’
‘Cheers.’
‘This place is a tip. If Ange saw this—’
‘I told you, I left in a rush.’
‘Your head’s been Christ knows where for weeks now. And I can only back you so far.’
‘Yeah, so you said.’ I get to my feet. ‘So thanks for all this, but how about we cut it short there? Neither of us wants this conversation, so how about you tell Lisa you did your duty and said your piece, just like she told you to.’
Freddie stares at me a while before he stands, running a thumb over a light smirk that says he’s holding back.
Don’t be shy, Fred, let’s have it. Might as well. And then, if you wouldn’t mind leaving...
‘Is that what you think?’ he says, fine lines creasing the corners of his eyes. ‘That’s why you think I’m here?’
‘I take it you’ve seen my wife. More than me, I imagine. So you probably already know better than I do what this is all about.’ I chuckle at the thought of the conversations they’ve had, the three of them. Ange sat at their kitchen table, Lisa patting her hand, Freddie shaking his head, no one quite knowing what the hell has become of me. ‘Did you see this as your chance, Fred? Slip a comforting arm around my wife’s shoulder? I mean, you’ve always had a soft spot for her you never could hide all that well. Even Lisa could see it—’
In one stride Fred’s there, his forearm against my throat as he pushes me against the wall. My elbow catches something on the shelf and it crashes to the floor. Fred’s clear blue eyes are only inches from mine and the pressure on my throat’s not enough to do damage, but it’s enough for me to feel the muscle beneath, the resistance that’s there when I try to push him away.
‘I’ve done my best to defend you, you fucking shit,’ he blurts into my face, his voice angry but steady, solid, the kind he’d use in the day job. ‘To your colleagues, your friends, your wife. But you know what, Steve? I’m tired of it. I’ve got more than I need on my plate without mopping up after you. So here’s the thing. Sort yourself out. For everyone’s sake.’
He loosens his grip and I push him away so that he stumbles, bumps against the table and some of the bottles topple over, one drops and rolls across the laminate floor. He shakes his head as he backs up to the door.
‘None of this is you, Steve. You need help, mate.’
My hand goes to my throat where I try to rub away the sensation that his arm is still lodged there.
‘What I need, mate, is for everyone to stop telling me what to do. I’d like just for once to make my own choices, not based on someone else’s opinion.’
He glares at me from across the room, seeing me but not recognising me – in the same way I don’t recognise my own voice, it’s as disconnected as the rest of me. But I won’t break his stare, won’t give him more ammunition to use against me.
A flicker passes over his eyes before he nods. ‘Alright,’ he says, quiet, distant; not my sergeant, but someone I’ve known for most of my life. ‘You’ve got it, Steve.’
He hesitates to leave though, standing by the door and glancing back. But whatever he sees when he looks at me helps him decide. ‘Take care of yourself.’
The front door has barely closed when my legs give way. I ease myself to the floor, hand reaching out for something to cling to. But the ground beneath me is soft, crumbling. Or maybe it’s me; my fingers disintegrating into powder as they rub against each other. I look down. The black urn is on its side, the lid thrown open and Rumpole’s ashes scattered around me, the fine ash coating my hands a deathly grey.
