I decide on fencing as Luke’s special defensive skill – the one he can deploy in a crisis, if he needs to. Should there be any more horseplay. It is gentlemanly, unusual, and will show off my range as a writer. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about it. They wouldn’t teach us things like that in Feltham. Too violent. Fencing may be about grace, about gentlemen in long stone corridors saying ‘touché’ and leaping around in tight breeches. But every so often blood is drawn, red on white shirts, when tempers are frayed. And we weren’t allowed tempers in Feltham. Or it was back to our rooms for another twenty-two hours, privileges withdrawn.
I’m conscious that Luke’s face is emblazoned on posters, newspaper hoardings and the TV, and that the more I stare at it, the more it looks like me. So I go to a different Internet café from usual, in big headphones and a hoodie, and watch the instructors on YouTube.
He regards his opponent. Drenched in sweat, they circle around each other. This is no innocent parry. Luke must keep alert, focused, as he engages his steely foil with the man across from him. There is menace in his opponent’s eyes. Just for a moment. But that is long enough, and Luke thrusts forward.
I try to map the moves under the table, but I get revolted looks from the people at the computers across from me. It is difficult to mime the thrust and charge in a seated environment renowned for pornography. Instead, I have to make do with mapping the footwork under the table. Every twenty minutes I visit the toilet to practise the moves in the mirror. This pattern also wins me some disgust from my fellow users (although others decide it is a good idea and follow suit – they are the ones who have not come here to work on their CVs).
When I feel I have learnt enough for my first day, I search for the features on Huhne that I unearthed while I was Adam’s, and print them. A dossier may prove useful. Then I run back home. I say run, but much of it is interrupted by a lunge, a flunge, a riposte or a parry, with an imaginary opponent. Or not so imaginary. We’ll see.
I am quite hot on my return, so I practise some more fencing in the shower. When I get out, I plan to do some work on the violin, maybe practise some fencing with the bow. Luke will soon be skilled enough to woo and defend the honour of any lady.
Those plans are put on hold when the doorbell rings. I am wearing some quite respectable boxers so I go to the door in them. I look through the viewfinder. DC Huhne.
I contemplate not answering, but she opens the letterbox and looks through, crotch-level. She clearly likes what she sees because she rings the doorbell again.
‘Mr Millard, would you open the door please? There’s something I’d like to ask you.’
I consider.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ I ask.
There is a pause.
‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s about your writing.’
I open up. I see her see my ab-tastic torso, look away again and look back.
It would probably make her more comfortable if I put on some more clothes. But then, it would make me more comfortable if she wasn’t in my house. I lead her though to the sitting room as I am.
‘I haven’t finished book four yet, you know,’ I say.
‘Book four? That’s impressive!’
‘Book three! I meant book three!’
‘Still impressive,’ she says.
I do the ‘modest’ shrug I have been perfecting over the years.
‘Thing is, Mr Millard, I still don’t have your autograph, and my daughter, she’s pretty insistent.’
The famous daughter, hey? As reported in the press. Funny for a dead girl to want an autograph.
‘Quietly insistent?’ I ask, locking Huhne’s gaze.
Huhne stares back at me, not blinking. ‘If you like,’ she says.
‘Silent as the grave?’ I ask.
‘She has methods of getting what she wants. We all do. If you could include a little message, too, that would be super. I did ask, remember?’
I do remember, but I don’t care to remind her of our meeting outside Ally’s flat.
‘Does a lot of reading your daughter, does she? At the moment? Dead keen, is she?’ I ask.
‘She loves books. And she’s very impatient, like me.’
She offers me a pen and a bit of paper. I don’t take it, much as I would love to write ‘Sorry you are dead’ on it.
This seems more like a DS Pearce trick than one of hers. I tell her so.
A faint lobster tinge rises in her cheeks but she maintains eye contact.
‘Why would it be a trick, Mr Millard?’ she asks. ‘Why would I need your handwriting?’
‘Why would your daughter?’ I ask back. ‘Your dead daughter?’
Huhne stares at me. I return the stare.
‘Research is a great thing, Debbie,’ I say.
She continues to stare. Then she opens her mouth as if to speak, but she stops again. Then she manages to get words out.
‘Just the autograph please, Mr Millard,’ she says. No hint of a tremor in her voice.
I think of the steel of her heel. It runs right through her. I wonder if she will notice if I write with my left hand.
‘Ms Lomax was a bit freaked out that you were all having dinner together opposite a murder scene,’ says DC Huhne. A subject change. So she is not invincible. But nor am I. It’s a difficult subject. I must be careful.
‘Nicole gets freaked out about a lot of things, Debbie. Like the idea that I killed the first Mrs Lomax.’
‘So she keeps saying, Mr Millard.’
‘Keeps?’ I test.
DC Huhne doesn’t answer. Maybe she remembers she is meant to protect Nicole. She can protect away. It won’t make any difference.
I see DC Huhne looking at the rucksack.
‘Could I possibly have a glass of water, Mr Millard? It’s a warm day.’
She hasn’t undone her coat since she came in, but I go to the kitchen anyway. DC Huhne has clearly forgotten it is in the same place as the sitting room. I experiment with turning my back for a couple of minutes, then whizzing back round again.
The rucksack has found its way closer to DC Huhne. She is scratching her ankle, her hand staying down there when she’s done itching.
‘Your water,’ I say, handing her a glass.
‘Wouldn’t you like to put some clothes on?’ she asks. I see her glance at the rucksack, judging how far her hand is away from it, how easy it would be to get inside.
‘Yes, I would love to,’ I say, picking up the rucksack. ‘They’re in here.’ She frowns a little, her plan to look in my bag thwarted.
I wait to be told it is an odd place for clothes, but she doesn’t say anything. My hit.
I go into the bedroom and emerge again in my red cords and a T-shirt.
As I move into the living room, I realise I am clinking gently.
The keys, in my pocket.
I consider retreating again to the bedroom, but DC Huhne joins me in the corridor.
‘Nice trousers,’ she says. ‘My husband was looking for a pair like that, once. Where would I find them for him, now, if I went looking?’
Oh, the husband now. I see.
‘Seriously, your husband, Debbie?’
‘My husband was looking for a pair like that, once,’ she repeats, enunciating every syllable, as if trying to emphasise its truth. ‘Where would I find them for him, now, if I went looking?’
‘Do you find lying helps with your job, Debbie?’ I ask. ‘Makes you more credible?’
She pauses.
‘The label on your trousers, please, Mr Millard.’
‘You should get some help. See someone,’ I recommend.
‘I’d just like to see the label of your trousers. I can take a look, if you’ve forgotten,’ says DC Huhne. She raises her hands to belt level and moves towards me.
‘What would your husband say about you putting your hands down the back of my trousers?’ I ask. ‘Do you miss putting your hands down his, is that it? Is that why you want to touch me up? Shall I make a complaint?’
At the mention of a complaint, she puts her hands down and steps back. A career woman. Wouldn’t want a blemish.
‘Besides, I got them from a charity shop, so the label would be meaningless,’ I say. I scratch my nose, then realise that means I’m lying. I put my hand in my pocket, then remember about the keys. I want to take my hand out again, but it will look fidgety so I leave it in there, brushing against the metal.
‘Just the autograph, then, Mr Millard. Please.’
‘For your daughter?’
‘For my daughter.’
‘What’s she called? Autographs need dedications.’
DC Huhne pauses. Then, very quietly, mutters, ‘Sarah.’
‘What?’ I ask, pretending not to hear.
‘Sarah,’ she says, more loudly. ‘Her name is Sarah.’
I take the proffered pen and paper. In my best copperplate I write: ‘To Sarah, with all best wishes for a speedy recovery. I hope they have a good library up there and you’re having fun. Best wishes’ – and I nearly write Luke – ‘Dan.’
I hand her the paper. She flaps it gently, to allow the ink to dry. She doesn’t read it. Then she folds it very carefully and puts it in the pocket of the coat. She puts on her gloves. Only then does she take back the pen, and put it into an evidence bag. She sees me see her do this. I don’t know why she bothers, unless she wants to scare me more, or unless she hasn’t done her homework. They have my prints from Feltham. No doubt Nicole would also like them to be on the car that killed Helen. But I doubt they would be, even if it were returned to the garage. We kept our cars clean. Jimmy was in charge of that. Amongst his other jobs.
I show DC Huhne to the door.
As we get there, she turns.
‘We all have different versions of the truth, Mr Millard. My job is to get to the facts.’
‘So is mine. I research for my writing, then I make the facts live.’
‘Research doesn’t tell you everything. You can miss bits out.’
I shrug. Ridiculous, but I don’t tell her. She doesn’t need to know how thorough I am.
‘Thanks, Mr Millard. My daughter will really appreciate this. See you soon.’
‘I hope not,’ I say.
She laughs, as if it’s a joke. As she crosses the road, I follow her with my eyes. Her hand moves up to her face, as if to brush away an eyelash. I see her get into a car. Her own car, this time. DS Pearce is no longer at the wheel.