Lucy was waiting for him in a café on Broughton Street, the same one where they had met for the second time. Parlabane spotted her through the window and felt something tingle inside him. He admitted it freely to himself; enjoyed the sensation, even. She was wearing a silver-grey coat and a mariner-style cap, her look a modern evocation of Victoriana that was definitely more steam than punk.
She looked up in response to the sound of him coming through the door. His breath paused in anticipation of her reaction, craving a sparkle in her eyes. Instead she gave him a sad and fragile smile.
The first time Lucy came to his flat, she had brought coffee and a copy of the Daily Record. Both things were present on the table in front of her, the latter seeming no less incongruous second time around, and once again it bore the reason for her mood.
BLACK WIDOW screamed the front page. It was his story, though he’d never have gone with that headline.
Diana Jager had been charged with Peter Elphinstone’s murder. She had been interviewed by detectives in Inverness and was now being held on remand. The cloying report about tragedy striking fairytale newlyweds was recalled in a rag-out miniature of a previous page: ‘deception of a gullible tabloid’ being an unofficial addition to Jager’s charge-sheet.
They traded small talk as he ordered, tentative and cautious steps on neutral ground. It exclusively consisted of him asking about her.
‘When did you get back? What were you doing in London?’
That kind of thing.
The reciprocal questions about what he had being doing lately represented harsher terrain.
A waitress in a nose-ring and a Savage Earth Heart T-shirt put down his double espresso with a smile, then glided away like she was on roller skates. He took a sip and placed the cup down, his action an overture they both understood.
Proper questions now.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m okay.’
She nodded affirmation but her expression contradicted her: full of doubt, certain of nothing.
They both sipped at their coffees, conspicuously filling the silence. Parlabane could hear people at other tables having easy conversations. It served to underline how awkward this suddenly felt. Whatever had ignited between them a few doors down at the Barony now seemed a guttering flame. A draught from an open door could extinguish it.
She put down her cup, ran a finger along the rim.
‘Jack, the reason I called you here…’
He stiffened in his seat, swallowed involuntarily.
‘I want to say thanks. For everything.’
He loved the sound of her voice. That cinnamon scent. Her clothes. She’d never looked so good, in fact, as right then. But they say a woman never looks as beautiful as when she’s walking out of your life.
‘You’re welcome. I just wish I hadn’t been so successful, if you know what I mean.’
‘Entirely. And that’s why this is hard, but I need some space right now. I’m trying to come to terms with all of this. It’s like my feelings have been on hold, or I’ve been having kind of placeholder emotions since Peter died. And now bang, here comes the real thing. Pain, anger, shock, and the grief of losing him all over again, only it’s so much worse because this time I know she hurt him.’
He thought she might cry, but her voice remained steady, if feeble. His instinct was to reach out a hand, but it didn’t feel right.
‘I understand.’
And he did. He understood that she was always going to associate him with this. He understood that the only thing to do was give her that space, let her find that distance.
They finished their coffees in silence. Someone at a nearby table was talking about the story: the usual mixture of speculation and judgement, an ideal accompaniment to a mid-morning cuppa. It was a stark reminder to him of how much harder this was for Lucy. It wasn’t a story to her, or a paycheque. It was her world. He had delved into the darkness for her, but now she was the one who had to live there.
‘I’d better go,’ she said.
‘I know.’
He watched her walk out, felt a draught as she opened the door; pictured that flame going out.
That was when he realised it was only over if he allowed it to be. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake he did with Mairi, appreciating what had been in his grasp only once he’d let it go. This was worth fighting for.
He stood up and looked out his wallet, putting down a tenner. He wouldn’t wait for change. He was going after her.
Then his mobile rang: a number he didn’t recognise. To other people, that aspect would immediately bump it down the priority list. To Parlabane, it was always a potential lead, a story waiting to be told, a summons he was compelled to obey.
He pressed Answer with his right thumb as his left hand reached for the handle on the café door.
‘Hello.’
It was a woman’s voice, querulous and uncertain.
‘I was looking for Jack Parlabane?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, right. Okay. Well, my name is Keira Stroud. I’m Diana Jager’s lawyer.’
That stopped him where he stood, quickly running a mental fact-check on everything he had filed.
‘I think it’s the polis you should be worrying about. My story stands up one hundred per—’
‘She wants to talk to you.’
‘Aye, very good.’
He was already searching for some kind of legal trap.
‘Listen, I’m not finding it any easier to believe than you do. I’m the one supposed to be defending her and she’s giving me absolutely nothing. Instead she says she wants to speak to you, in person.’
‘About what?’
‘She said to tell you – and I am quoting precisely here – “you alone will discover the secret of what happened to my husband”.’
‘Sounds like a set-up.’
‘Sounds like an exclusive, but that’s not my call. I’m only the go-between, it would appear.’
‘Why would she tell me? I’m the one who dug up all this stuff that helped put the bite on her.’
‘No point asking me, Mr Parlabane. Diana’s the one person who can answer your questions. And good luck with that, because she’s answered precious few of mine.’