In the square-shouldered shadow cast by the Liver Building, Harry waited at the crossing for the lights to change. The brown stonework of John Newton House gleamed in the early evening sun. Gulls swooped and whirled overhead, and the Strand echoed with the hoot and roar of cars dodging traffic cones beside the brand new highway to the river’s edge. Another skyscraper had begun to soar beyond a freshly built hotel. Invisible behind a security fence, diggers roared like caged animals. The earth was moving, the landscape he’d known all his life changing before his eyes. The city had needed a facelift; he hoped it wouldn’t turn into a heart transplant.
Victor was alone behind the desk at ground level, absorbed in a paperback. On the cover, figures in white paper suits gathered behind a yellow tape marked POLICE – DO NOT CROSS. Wasn’t living above a scene of crime enough for him?
They exchanged grunts of acknowledgment. On the fifth floor, reception was deserted. The palms and ferns seemed to droop, as though mourning for the woman who had cared for them. When he reached Sylvia’s room, he found her locking the door.
‘You’re working late.’
‘I wanted to make sure that everything was under control. I didn’t expect to see you again today. Any news about Jim?’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll be the first to know once Carmel and I hear anything from the medics.’
She sniffed hard. The mask she’d worn all day was flaky at the edges. Her face was pink and blotched, as though she’d shed tears when she thought no one was around to see.
‘Harry, who would do such a thing?’
‘He was mugged.’
‘You don’t believe that. Why would a mugger take such a risk, hiding in a secure underground car park? How would he know the security cameras were on the blink?’
‘The city’s full of people who take chances. Even when they’re not stoned out of their minds, they don’t think like you and me.’
Sylvia’s mouth set in an obstinate line. ‘There are so many easy pickings round here. Offices where you can walk straight in. Why go to the trouble of lurking down in that dark and dusty basement? There must be something more to it.’
‘Such as?’
‘This message you received about Midsummer’s Eve. Might that be connected?’
He blinked. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Oh, Harry.’ She scolded like a mother who’d caught her son surfing pornographic websites. ‘Do you imagine you can keep a secret in this place?’
Hard to believe that he’d once congratulated himself for keeping his affair with Juliet quiet. How naïve could he be?
‘Not really. So Jim couldn’t keep his mouth shut?’
‘He was worried for you.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘He didn’t want you to stress out over it. But it bothered him.’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Foretelling your death? No, that’s scary.’
‘I’m still in one piece.’
‘It isn’t Midsummer’s Eve yet. And Jim isn’t in one piece any more, is he?’
Her voice trembled. Afraid she was about to cry again, he rested his hand on her shoulder and felt bone under the thin cotton top. She choked back a sob.
‘And then there’s poor Kay. Such a sweet girl. To think that she and I were chatting only the other afternoon.’
‘Nothing special.’ Sylvia frowned. ‘She seemed out of sorts. Wound-up.’
‘What was wrong?’
‘I asked about her new flat. I thought she’d be thrilled. But she didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Where did they get the money from?’
‘You know what young people are like, Harry.’ She tutted like a censorious grandmother. ‘Live now, pay later. It was all very different when we were kids.’
‘They rented, they didn’t buy.’
‘Even so, the landlord would ask for money in advance. Where would they find the cash? Tom never seems to hold a job down for long. From what Kay has told me, he’d rather stay at home with a curry, watching soccer on satellite TV, or go out to watch the trains at Lime Street Station while she’s out working her fingers to the bone.’
‘So they hadn’t won the lottery?’
‘Kay would have mentioned anything like that. She confided in me sometimes. Her mother was dead, you know, and she’d fallen out with her sister. I think she needed an older woman to talk to.’
He nodded; Sylvia was a good listener. ‘What sort of things did she confide?’
She drew away from him. ‘Woman’s talk, Harry. Private stuff.’
About sex, then.
‘Nothing that gives you any understanding of why she was murdered, then?’
‘Good Heavens, no! Who would want to kill a nice girl like that? The murderer must be a maniac, that’s all I can say.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘It’s like a nightmare. Harry – what’s happening?’
‘The police will sort it,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt.
‘What did they say to you?’
‘Not much.’ This wouldn’t be a good moment to mention that Sibierski wanted him to provide an alibi. ‘They seem to think there’s a link with a couple of other murders.’
‘The woman who was found on Waterloo beach? And the other one, a few weeks ago?’
He nodded. ‘Let’s wait and see. In the meantime, I’ll take good care of myself. Promise.’
‘You’d better, Harry. We can’t afford to lose you as well.’
‘You won’t be rid of me that easily, don’t worry.’
She folded her arms, fighting for control. ‘So what brings you to my room at this time of evening?’
‘I wanted to check our personnel records.’
A gallows smile. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve had a sudden crisis of conscience about those overdue staff appraisals?’
‘I’d like to check our file on Grace.’
She made a performance of consulting her wristwatch. ‘At this time of day? What’s wrong?’
‘Probably nothing. No need for you to wait. I have a spare key to the filing cabinet.’
‘Harry, you can trust me.’
He gazed into her anxious eyes. Sylvia was a rock, but even rocks wear to sand. With Jim on the danger list, she had enough to fret about. He couldn’t burden her with his fear that Grace might not only be a part-time escort, but also the next target for a brutal serial killer.
‘The morning of the Borth inquest, Grace met the client for the first time. I had the impression that they knew each other, but neither of them said anything.’
‘What’s unusual about that?’
‘They seemed…I dunno, embarrassed? Unwilling to acknowledge each other. So I was curious to find out more about her background. Did we take up references?’
‘They were excellent. But what does that mean? References only tell you what the referees want you to know.’
She led him into her room and unlocked the three-drawer cabinet where she stored confidential staff records and handed over a buff folder.
He leafed through the documents. Agency terms of business, evidence of qualifications, and a two page curriculum vitae. Grace was Liverpool born and bred; after leaving school at sixteen, she’d studied at secretarial college and spent a couple of years travelling the world before starting work. Following spells typing for senior officials at first the University and then Merseyside Police, she’d spent most of her career working in the legal profession. Even before becoming a temp three years ago, the longest she’d spent in the same job was eighteen months. She’d worked in most of the law firms in the city, two of which had provided glowing testimonials, as well as the coroner’s office and the magistrates’ court.
‘She’s a butterfly.’ Sylvia’s tone made it clear this was not a good thing.
‘Maybe she likes variety.’
‘Maybe she’s looking for something she’ll never find.’
Aren’t we all? Harry kept his mouth shut. His eye had been caught by Grace’s home address. 13 Oram Avenue, Waterloo.
‘You look surprised,’ Sylvia said.
‘Sorry, I’ve raised a false alarm,’ he said. ‘Grace’s home is a quarter of a mile from Aled Borth’s. For all I know, she’s a regular at the Alhambra.’
Sylvia raised her eyebrows, but slipped the folder back in its place and said nothing. He could tell she wasn’t convinced. Neither was he, really. Even if Grace and Borth might be neighbours, that didn’t explain why they’d been so shocked to see each other.
As the lift doors closed on Sylvia, he went in search of Gina Paget. She was mopping the floor in the kitchen area, elbows pumping with a furious rhythm. She’d sprayed into the air a citrus fragrance so fierce that he almost choked. When he coughed, she gave a little gasp. She spun round to face him, her cheeks bright red.
‘You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!’
‘Sorry. I meant…’
‘OK, OK, I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’ She wiped her hands on her overall. ‘You can understand why I’m jumpy. There’s been another, hasn’t there?’
He knew at once what she meant. ‘Yes.’
‘The radio news only said a woman had been killed, but one of the girls says that the victim came to work here sometimes. Looked after plants.’
‘Your grapevine’s very efficient.’
‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business, don’t they?’
‘Uh-huh.’ As Sylvia said, you couldn’t keep secrets. How long before Wayne Saxelby started dining out on the story of how he’d rescued Harry from the balcony? He could imagine him bragging: tiptoed along like bloody Blondin, he’d have broken his neck if I hadn’t hauled him in. ‘Her name was Kay. How much do you know about her?’
‘I never met her. But one of the Lithuanian girls who works on the first floor has a friend who knew her.’
‘They were escorts?’
‘So your grapevine’s working too.’ Gina stabbed her mop into the bucket. ‘Don’t tread on that floor, it’s slippery. You could break your neck.’
‘Nowhere’s safe,’ he said softly.
‘The man who’s doing this needs to be stopped. They said on the radio that the police have brought in a top profiler. About bloody time.’
‘The profiler can’t conjure up a suspect out of thin air.’
‘Maybe there’s a suspect closer than we think.’
‘What makes you say that?’
She bent closer to him, and lowered her voice, although he was sure there was nobody else around. ‘The girls have been talking.’
‘And?’
‘They told the supervisor they may go on strike unless something’s done about Victor Creepy.’
‘They’re not saying he’s murdered three women?’
‘Why not? He soaks himself in all this forensic bollocks, he knows how to kill without leaving a trace. They reckon that’s how he’s evaded detection all this time. You can take that look off your face, Harry Devlin. I’m not saying I go along with the rest of them. If I did, I wouldn’t still be at work here. But you have to admit, it makes a lot of sense.’
He shook his head. ‘Victor has an alibi for the murder of Kay.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘You heard my partner Jim Crusoe was attacked last night?’
‘In the basement, yes. Mugged, wasn’t he?’
‘I haven’t a clue what happened.’
She shivered. ‘Imagine, something so close to us here. Poor man, it must have happened not long after I left.’
‘Don’t you remember seeing Victor? He and a friend were here when Jim was discovered in the car park and stayed for the rest of the evening after the police arrived.’
‘I suppose so.’ She didn’t seem thrilled that Victor was off the hook. ‘But you’ll never persuade the girls he hasn’t got something to hide.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Why does he guard those keys of his like they were the crown jewels?’
‘I’m glad to hear there’s some kind of security here.’
‘He’s obsessive about it. Even Lou’s duplicate set isn’t complete.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘There are lots of things us cleaners know that you important bosses don’t.’
That I can believe. ‘Go on, surprise me.’
Her voice dropped to conspiratorial pitch. ‘Lou fancies our supervisor. She’d run a mile if it ever got serious, but it’s not a bad idea to make friends with the bloke on the desk. Lou doesn’t really like Victor. He says being interested in all this crime scene stuff isn’t healthy, though I suppose his real gripe is that he doesn’t like being told what to do. He even blames Victor for what happened to your partner.’
Harry stiffened. ‘How come?’
‘He reckons it was Victor who fucked up the security cameras.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘It wouldn’t be difficult for someone with the right know-how. And Victor worked as an electrician for years, he says.’
Harry didn’t know that. Again he realised how little he understood about the people he spoke to every day of his working life; even compared to a woman who cleaned here for a few hours each night.
‘These keys, does he keep them on him all the time?’
‘When he’s on duty, yes. When he isn’t, they stay in his flat.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the rack they hang on, on the wall inside the front door.’
‘What if we could lay our hands on those keys?’ she breathed. ‘I can make it happen, you know.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a girl called Irena, she cleans the offices on the first floor. She’s Lithuanian and she doesn’t like Victor. I’m sure she’d help.’
‘How could she lay her hands on the keys?’
‘All we need her to do is borrow them for five minutes. She can make an impression and then put them back in their place. Victor won’t be any the wiser.’
‘But if he’s paranoid about security…’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Irena’s an artist among shoplifters. You should see her wardrobe, she must be the best dressed cleaner in the north of England. And she’s never paid for a single garment. It’s like magic, what she does. Trust me, Victor will never know his keys have disappeared.’
‘Heard the news about the latest murder?’ Ceri Hussain asked.
Harry swallowed the last mouthful of marinated Tuscan beef. Topped with flakes of Parmesan cheese. He’d never be a gourmet, but even he could tell that the food was excellent.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And you know the victim?’
They had chosen a secluded corner at The Lido, a Venetian-themed restaurant overlooking the waters of Albert Dock. Waiters kitted out as gondoliers with stripey shirts and straw hats; on the table, red roses blooming out of a vase of Murano glass. Gaudy carnival masks hung from the walls, Vivaldi played in the background. Until now they had kept the conversation casual. Ceri looked good in a slickly tailored khaki jacket with a white vest underneath. He relished being with her, couldn’t help feeling flattered by the concentration she bestowed on him.
‘Her name is Kay Cheung.’
‘Tom Gunter’s girlfriend,’ Ceri muttered.
He cleared his throat. Now for the tricky bit. ‘I ought to tell you, the police have questioned me about her killing. Officially, I’m a suspect.’
In the flickering candlelight, Ceri’s expression was as sombre as when she brought in verdicts on the how, why and when of death.
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Perhaps I should have told you before I asked you to have dinner with me. I don’t want to wreck your reputation.’
‘Never mind that, Harry. What are they thinking of?’
‘Kay asked to see me yesterday evening.’
‘Why?’
‘She wouldn’t discuss it on the phone. We arranged to meet in Widnes, by the road bridge. Where she was killed. I turned up late because Farmers4Justice blocked the road, and she was nowhere to be seen. For all I know, the poor woman was already dead by then. Cards on the table, Ceri. Stan Sibierski suggested her rejection of my sexual advances drove me to murder.’
‘For goodness’ sake! I know Sibierski, he’s a buffoon. Pay no attention.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ He gave her a crooked grin. ‘But feel free to leave now if you wish.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She hesitated. ‘Harry, I don’t want to break confidences.’
‘Of course not,’ he said, pricking up his ears.
‘Widnes falls outside my jurisdiction, but the rumour mill is working overtime. Ken Porterfield is always first with any news. He still has plenty of friends in the police. The story goes that they are linking this death to the two other murders. Denise Onuoha and Lee Welch.’
He nodded. ‘Same MO. Same signature.’
She peered at him. ‘Do you know what the murderer’s signature is?’
‘He…cuts out their tongues.’
He came close to gagging as he forced out the words. Nobody deserved to die like that. But Kay, of all people? He remembered seeing her that last time, doing what she loved, caring for the plants. When he thought about how she had been violated, he wanted to scream with rage. She’d trusted him, she had nobody else – and he’d let her down.
Ceri spoke so quietly that he had to strain to hear. ‘I gather she worked as an escort, like Denise and Lee.’
‘He forced her into it!’
‘Who else?’
‘You can’t know that for certain.’
‘Nothing else makes sense. Kay was a lovely young woman. If it wasn’t for Gunter screwing up her life…’
‘There’s nothing you could do.’
‘I should have found out why she wanted to see me. If only I’d…’
‘Believe me, Harry, you can’t live by if onlys. If I ever doubted that, Ricky’s death made me sure.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He wasn’t as strong as me. I was crazy about him, you know, but I forgot he needed me to keep reminding him. I wish…’
He didn’t say anything, fearing to make it worse.
For an instant, she closed her eyes. ‘That the man I loved could do something so terrible…’
He must change the subject before she broke down.
‘I hear Gunter has disappeared.’
She was breathing hard, fighting not to lose control. ‘You’re…you’re as well informed as Ken Porterfield.’
‘It comes from a lifetime of nosiness,’ he said, striving for a lighter note.
‘You must have friends in the police.’
He pushed his plate to one side. ‘Stan Sibierski isn’t one of them.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No problem.’ But even with Ceri, he wouldn’t be drawn. He mustn’t compromise Carmel Sutcliffe by hinting she had been indiscreet.
‘As for Gunter, Ken tells me that he has an alibi for the Onuoha case.’
It didn’t mean much. Alibis were bought and sold in Merseyside all the time. Soon, no doubt, they would become a staple of internet auctions.
‘Provided by a friend?’
‘Harry, you’re a cynic.’
‘Years of experience, that’s all. I suppose Tom leant on someone to cover for him.’
‘No, he did much better than that.’
‘Go on. Surprise me.’
‘Tom was in police custody when Denise was murdered.’
‘Meaning what, exactly? In jail? Out wearing an electronic tag while he washed old people’s cars as part of his community service?’
‘It couldn’t be more straightforward. He was held in a cell overnight.’
He swore under his breath. ‘What happened?’
‘An argument with a bloke in a pub escalated into a fight and Tom pulled a knife. A couple of the other man’s mates knocked seven bells out of him and took the knife. The police were called and when Tom started being stroppy, they locked him up. He got off with a caution, but there’s no way he could have murdered Denise. The timings can’t be made to fit. If the same man killed all three women, you can be sure it wasn’t Tom Gunter.’
‘Could Tom have found out how Denise was murdered?’
‘Out of the question. The police have kept this very tight. There’s no way he could have known.’
Her certainty was compelling. He felt his shoulders droop.
‘So Tom is in the clear?’
‘’Fraid so.’
Kay’s murder made sense as a dismal domestic crime. Her lover was violent, easy to imagine a quarrel getting out of hand. But if Kay was simply one more entry in a long list of victims, she’d lost her life through the most ridiculous of reasons. She’d found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. A place where she’d meant to meet him. Would it have been different if he’d set off earlier, if the Strand hadn’t been clogged with the demonstration?
‘Why would he do a runner, then?’
‘We know it’s a serial killing,’ she said patiently. ‘We know he has an alibi for the first crime. But Tom doesn’t have a clue. He’ll be holed up somewhere, probably petrified about what will happen to him, innocent or not.’
Tom, in hiding and afraid? Maybe there was some justice. But not enough.
‘Which means we have to look elsewhere for our murderer?’
‘I don’t like this any more than you do. But the police have to face facts. A serial killer is at work.’
‘I gather that Maeve Hopes has been called in to contribute her expertise.’
‘Such as it is,’ Ceri murmured. ‘The professor and I spent twelve months on a committee investigating evidence in criminal cases.’
‘I bet that was fun?’
‘I finished up thinking she cared more about her own profile than any criminal’s. If the police are consulting her, they must be desperate.’ She ran a hand through her thick hair. ‘Sorry, do I sound like a jealous bitch?’
He shook his head. She’d only drunk a single glass of wine, but he’d never heard her speak so frankly before. He hoped her candour meant she trusted him.
‘Of course not. I’ve never met the professor and already I’ve formed a deep prejudice against her. As for the police, they have three murders to investigate. Three separate crime scenes. There must be loads of trace evidence. DNA, whatever. They will latch on to a suspect soon.’
‘Maybe.’
A swarthy gondolier whose deep Mediterranean tan didn’t quite match his broad Scouse accent refilled their glasses and took dessert orders. When he had departed, Harry said, ‘I expected you to be more optimistic.’
‘Disillusioned by a thousand post-mortems, I’m afraid. The truth is, I’ve lived with death for a long time. Too long.’
Her melancholy dismayed him. She’d always struck him as so strong, so assured. And now she spoke as if tempted to toss it all away.
‘You work so hard to help bereaved families to come to terms with loss. I’ve seen you in action, remember. It’s your vocation. Everyone admires what you’ve achieved.’
‘Nothing lasts forever.’
‘Ceri…’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t burden you.’ She drank some more Marzemino. ‘In vino veritas, perhaps.’
‘You’re not burdening me.’
‘Your partner’s lying in hospital, desperately ill. You don’t need me sounding off with self-indulgent angst on top of that. All I’m saying is, don’t take it for granted that the police will solve this case soon. Chances are, they’ll never find who murdered the girls.’
‘The kind of man who commits this crime never knows when to stop.’
‘Not true, I’m afraid. Think of Jack the Ripper, the Hammersmith murderer, the Zodiac case. The list goes on. Serial killers who stopped before they were caught.’
Ceri considered this for a long time before giving a shrug of impatience. ‘Who knows?’
‘I have to believe justice will be done.’
‘Oh, Harry. And you an experienced lawyer. When will you learn?’
As if to soften the harshness of her words, she stretched a slim hand across the table and laid it on his. A few days ago, he might have dreamt of this. A candlelit dinner with Ceri Hussain, her cool skin touching his. Yet death and disaster had brought them together. Be careful what you wish for.
In his jacket pocket, his mobile trilled and gently he withdrew his hand. Carmel’s mobile number shone on the screen. He could tell from her voice that she was trying not to let her hopes rise too high too soon.
‘The surgeon’s pleased with how the operation went. He says Jim’s shown amazing resilience.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ He knew the crunch would come when his partner woke up. Would he still be the same man they’d known for so long?
‘As for Amazing Grace, I’ve put out feelers. The word is that she isn’t on the books of the escort agency.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘You could do with some good news. Talking of which, are you enjoying the coroner’s company?’
He threw a quick glance at Ceri. She was savouring the last of her wine, casting a thoughtful eye over framed prints of the Piazza San Marco and the wooden bridge at Accademia.
‘Definitely.’
A throaty chuckle. ‘Have a lovely night.’
‘Speak to you tomorrow.’
When he’d rung off, Ceri smiled. ‘Good news about Jim Crusoe?’
‘It’s early days.’ He took a breath. ‘Another thing. It concerns Aled Borth.’
She frowned. ‘Tell me.’
He described Grace’s brief encounter in the office with Borth and his fear that she might be a potential victim. As he talked, he became aware that Ceri’s attention had begun to wander.
‘You think Borth might be the murderer?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘And this secretary of yours, she’s called Grace?’
‘Grace Samuels, that’s right.’
‘Grace Samuels! She used to work for me, did you know?’
‘Her CV said she once worked in the coroner’s office. I meant to ask if it was before your time.’
‘Not quite. We overlapped by a couple of months. An unusual character, Grace, but a first-class secretary. Intelligent and well-organised. Unfortunately, her parents died soon after she began working for me, and after that, she lost the plot. Wanted a change.’
She sounded as though she didn’t have much patience with people who wanted a change, let alone those who lost the plot. He’d met few women as single-minded about their work as Ceri Hussain. Throwing herself into her job must have helped her to deal with her husband’s death. But maybe she’d come to realise that there’s no pleasure in all work and no play.
‘She’s temping now. I guess it suits her, but she doesn’t mix with the other staff. They find her rather strange.’
‘Is it any wonder? All that pagan nonsense.’
‘Pagan nonsense?’
‘Didn’t you know? After the death of her mum and dad, she got into nature worship. God knows what it involves. Dancing round Stonehenge skyclad on Midsummer’s Eve, for all I know.’
‘Midsummer’s Eve?’
She stared at him. ‘What…oh, you’re not wondering if Grace sent you that message, are you?’
‘Grace just wouldn’t behave like that,’ Ceri said as they left the restaurant. ‘Besides, why would she?’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Harry exhaled. ‘I may not be the best boss in the world, but I’m not quite bad enough for the staff to wish me dead.’
She laughed. ‘I’m sure they love working for you.’
Darkness had fallen. In the distance, drunken delegates to the John Lennon Convention were caterwauling ‘Imagine’ as they made their way back to their hotels.
Harry walked to the edge of the river and looked across towards the lights of the Wirral shining in the blackness.
‘The longest day,’ Ceri said, ‘and it’s nearly over.’
‘Did you know, Midsummer is one of those quarter days of the legal calendar when servants were hired and rent and rates were due? I suppose I shouldn’t worry. The true significance of Midsummer’s Eve is legal, not pagan.’
‘Now I know everything,’ she said softly, and leant towards him.
But the moment was ruined as he missed his footing on the cobbled walkway. They had polished off a couple of bottles of wine as they chatted through the meal. Just as well Ceri had arrived in a taxi; it wouldn’t do for a coroner to drink and drive.
‘I ought to call a cab,’ she said, when she’d stopped laughing.
He caught a hesitation in the words. At once his legs felt weak. Nothing to do with the alcohol this time. His head was clear enough for him to see that a door had opened. Wait a few seconds and it would shut again.
Take your chance.
‘Would you like to come back for coffee?’
She stopped to consider him. Her face was in shadows and he couldn’t read her expression.
‘We’ve just had coffee.’
Blown it. Oh God. He shouldn’t have tempted fate by tidying up the mess in his flat before he met her at The Lido.
‘I mean…I’ve enjoyed your company.’
She brushed his shoulder with her fingertips. ‘And I’ve enjoyed yours, Harry. Thank you.’
‘So…?’
She laughed. ‘As it happens, I could use another shot of caffeine. It’s a shame to rush off. But I mustn’t stay too late.’
‘No, no, of course, that’s fine.’ He tried not to stammer with delight. ‘My place is only a stone’s throw away. I can ring for a cab when you’re ready to go.’
‘Thanks.’
Before he knew what was happening, she’d linked her arm with his and they were heading for Empire Dock. The evening air was mellow, her touch felt warm and close. How long since he’d last brought a woman back home? His life was slipping like sand through his fingers. A week ago he’d dreamt he had driven his car into a sea of mud in the middle of nowhere. When he put his foot down, the wheels spun, but the car didn’t move. He woke in a cold sweat, but he was living the dream. He was trapped in his work and needed to escape.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Ceri said.
‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise. Let’s enjoy the evening.’
Her closeness made him light-headed, in a way the booze never could. As he unlocked his front door, panic seized him. What if his unknown enemy had trashed his home while he’d been out, and sprayed it with graffiti about death on Midsummer’s Eve?
But the flat was silent and untouched. He padded into the kitchen and poured coffee into a filter. Over his shoulder he saw her kneeling down to take a look at his music collection.
‘Choose whatever you like,’ he said.
‘I have a soft spot for Elvis Costello.’
As the coffee machine chugged, the flat filled with the raw vocal of ‘What’s Her Name Today?’ Dark words wrestling with a lush melody. As she settled on the sofa and kicked off her shoes, his stomach fluttered. Her mood seemed fragile. Even at the end of a meal as long and leisurely as a trip down the Grand Canal, he’d seen the way she turned and twisted her napkin as they talked, squeezing it into a tight little ball. Probably this was the first time she’d been alone with a man like this since her husband’s terrible death. How to avoid the one false move that would ruin everything?
He poured the coffees. She took off her jacket and folded it over a chair. He sat next to her on the sofa, and she half-turned to face him. For a few minutes they small-talked, but he hardly knew what he was saying. Her skin was pale; he was conscious of the swell of her breasts beneath the white vest. Thank God he’d had a few drinks, otherwise his nerves would be stretched to breaking point. He might have been an infant paddler straying out of his depth, excited yet fearful of being washed away by a tidal wave. Every now and then, her dark eyes met his; she yielded a trace of a smile, but no clue to what was in her mind.
He put down his cup and dared to rest his hand on her arm. Touching it so lightly that it might almost be an accident. She didn’t pull away. Her leg moved, grazed against his.
‘Thank you, Harry,’ she whispered.
Their faces moved closer together. Within moments they were kissing, her tongue hot and hungry on his. Her fingers slipped inside his shirt and she began to undo the buttons. He brushed against her breast and she gave a little gasp. His hand moved under her vest, felt the hardness of her vertebrae beneath the smooth skin, worked its way round until it reached the stiffening nipple and she gave a little cry.
At once she was on top of him. Pushing him beneath her with unexpected strength. Panting hard. His arms were wrapped around her back and he caressed her spine. She stared down at his face, but he wasn’t sure she could see him. It was as if she were gazing through a telescope into the far distance.
‘Ceri…’
She’d seen something through the telescope, something that frightened her. Horror filled the dark eyes and she jerked up and away from him.
Next moment she was standing up, grabbing at her jacket. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the kidneys. He’d tried to be so careful and still he’d got it wrong.
‘I can’t do this.’ Her voice was throaty, unrecognisable. ‘Sorry.’
‘What is it?’
She pulled on her shoes. ‘It’s not you, Harry. It’s me. And it’s Ricky’
Ricky, the husband who had chased women, suffered depression, failed in business, and finally killed himself. How long would his memory suffocate her?
He clambered off the sofa and stood in front of her. ‘Please talk to me.’
‘Ricky felt rejected. It made him angry and ashamed. He was on the edge, and I didn’t even notice. That’s why he behaved in a way I would never have believed.’
‘He shouldn’t have done what he did.’
Her expression was tortured with grief.
‘You don’t understand what I’m saying.’
His cheeks burnt. She couldn’t guess how desperate he was not to be rejected too.
‘I must go now.’
‘But…’
‘No buts. Please, Harry.’
It wasn’t going to happen between them after all. He inhaled the warm air. Time to admit defeat. Show a bit of dignity.
‘I’ll see you out.’
‘No need.’ In two minutes she’d aged ten years. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
The door closed behind her and Harry slumped on to the sofa. His heart pounded, his head throbbed. He felt sick with anger and despair.
‘It’s not you.’
The story of my fucking life.