A Poisoned Mind (17 page)

‘Greg,’ she said. ‘My son is here again. d’you and I need to talk over lunch or can I eat with him?’

‘Why don’t we all eat together?’ His beard rose up around his face like vegetation around a nestling rodent as he smiled, and his eyes looked more lopsided than ever.

‘We’ve still got an awful lot of catching up to do, Adam and I; it might be better if we …’ She let her voice tail away and didn’t wait for Greg’s agreement. Instead, she walked briskly towards Adam and kissed him without, she hoped, showing any sign of reluctance. Fran was standing a couple of rows behind him, looking friendly, which made smiling easier.

‘D’you feel like a bit of lunch in the coffee shop?’ she said to Adam.

‘Why not?’

Only once they were sitting with sandwiches in front of them did she ask why he’d run out on her yesterday.

‘It was all getting a bit heavy. I needed time to think. Didn’t the waiter give you my message?’

‘Message? No. All I found when I got back to the table was a wad of money, far too big for the bill.’ She reached into her bag and took out three twenty-pound notes. ‘Here’s your change. Oh, go on! Take it. I don’t need tipping, you know.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, neatly folding the money into his wallet. ‘I didn’t mean to insult you.’

‘While we’re on the subject of why, Adam, can you tell me why you never answered any of the letters I sent to you at the university after that awful day?’

He shrugged, then ate a large mouthful of sandwich to give himself an excuse for silent chewing. Angie did the same and watched him swallow.

‘Too angry,’ he said at last. A large crumb settled on his lower lip and he brushed it away with an impatience she
could recognise. She tried to put herself in his position.

‘With me?’ she said at last.

‘I told you: I hated the way you let him bully you
and
pretended you liked being his victim. I could’ve ki—’ He coloured.

She thought of the Land Rover powering towards her, with the farmyard’s mud spraying up from its tyres.

‘You could have killed me?’ she suggested, trying to sound as though she was making a joke of some kind and not remembering the way he’d aimed the Land Rover at her. ‘If you were so convinced
I
was the victim, why weren’t you angry with your father?’

‘Are you mad?
Of course
I was angry with him. On really bad days, I used to fantasise about all the things I’d like to do to him.’

Angie flinched, like a dog that’s been beaten once too often. Adam was still talking:

‘I knew I could never change him. Whatever I said, he’d go on putting you in the same position as Schlep, making you work all day for him and then have to wait on his pleasure before you were even allowed to eat.’

‘That’s
not
what it was like,’ she said, but still Adam wasn’t listening.

‘But I could have helped you if you’d only been prepared to admit how much you hated him.’

‘I
didn’t
hate him.’

John was dead. He had weathered the loss of his only son, just as he had weathered every other cruelty the Fates had thrown at him. Nothing Angie said or did now could alter one iota of the unhappiness he’d suffered, but she still had to make Adam see the truth.

‘I loved him, Adam. Of course he could be a difficult sod
when he was worn out or stressed. Everyone can be. Even you. But I
never
stopped loving him. You have to accept that.’

‘So, you’re still in denial. And I’ve wasted my time coming here,’ Adam said, his bitterness rasping her feelings like a grater. ‘You know where I am, so you can get me if you ever decide you want us to have an honest relationship. I’m off.’

He left three-quarters of his sandwich, pushed back his chair with a horrible squawk of its legs on the hard floor, and stalked away. Angie’s vision blurred. All the other lunchers, from distinguished lawyers to hard-pressed litigants, swam around her in a multicoloured liquid mess.

A warm hand on her back, and an even warmer voice asking how she was, told her Fran had seen everything and come to offer comfort. Angie leaned sideways until her sore head met the softness of Fran’s body. Her arm tightened into a hug and she stroked Angie’s hair.

‘It’ll be all right. He’ll come back. You need to be strong now. You’ve come so far, you mustn’t lose heart. We’re nearly there, and the judge likes you. I’m sure you’ll get the judgment you deserve and big enough damages to rebuild a proper life for yourself.’

Oh, God! Why did I ever let it start? Angie thought, straightening up again. Why did I let my vile temper drive me to it? Why didn’t I wait for the official reports like everybody told me? Why didn’t I accept that generous cheque instead of tearing it up and throwing it back? Will I ever learn not to let the anger send me over the edge?

 

David walked back from the gym with the rest of his class, hoping he’d find Jay in school with one of his highly
coloured excuses for being so late and missing a whole morning. But he wasn’t there. David stuffed his smelly gym clothes in his locker and headed off for lunch. Pity it was Wednesday, which was liver day. He hated liver, more than anything else the school cooked. Sometimes he even thought of being a vegetarian so he wouldn’t have to eat it. Then he remembered all of George’s best recipes and knew he couldn’t.

Someone rammed his arm round David’s neck in a high tackle and he leaned as heavily as he could so they got shoved against the wall. Pulling himself away, he looked and saw Sam, who was really his best friend, but who couldn’t stick Jay.

‘Where’s your spotty little underclass toerag today then?’ Sam said, putting on a voice like his dad’s.

‘Shut up, you fucking twat,’ David said. ‘He’s OK. He’s just not here now.’

They swaggered into the refectory together, two of the tallest boys in their year, and gritted their teeth over the dried-up slabs of liver. At least they were allowed ketchup with it, which made it just possible to swallow.

‘Disgusting!’ Sam said. ‘You got time for chess?’

‘David!’ His form monitor’s voice was even louder than usual.

‘What?’

‘The head wants to see you now. Don’t wait for pudding. OK?’

Sam’s heavy face, with nearly as many spots as Jay’s, broke into a smile.
‘You
! You never do anything wrong. What’s he want with you?’

‘Fuck knows. Warm up the chess board and I’ll find you Sam.’

Mr Black’s secretary wasn’t at her desk; no one was there, so David hovered for a bit, then knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ said Mr Black and David pushed open the heavy brown wooden door. ‘Ah, there you are, David, good. Come and sit down.’

There were two other people already there, a bloke in jeans and a black leather jacket and a woman in police uniform. They were still on their feet, so David ignored the chair.

‘This is David Maguire. David, these are DS Brown and WPC Jenkinson. They’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘What about?’

‘Jay,’ said Mr Black.

‘Just a minute, sir,’ said the bloke in the leather jacket. ‘We can handle this. David, when did you last see Jay Smith?’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘Are you arresting me?’

The head and both the police officers laughed. It didn’t sound real. David pulled himself as straight as he could and was glad to see he was taller than the WPC.

‘Because if you’re not, I don’t have to say anything. And I’m not saying anything without my sister being here.’

‘Sister? What’s she got to do with it?’

Mr Black intervened, quick and smooth, like a chocolate fountain. ‘A much older half-sister, she’s a barrister – a QC in fact. I’ve already left a message on her mobile, David, but she hasn’t answered so I’m assuming she’s in court again.’

‘I don’t think we need worry her, David,’ said the police bloke, sounding all sugary now. ‘You’re not in any trouble that I know of.’

‘Nor me,’ said Mr Black.

‘I just need to know when you last saw Jay Smith. Is there a problem about telling me?’

‘No,’ David said, trying to be polite. ‘But as a matter of principle it’s important to remember that police powers are limited in this country and it is the responsibility of British subjects to make sure they abide by those limits.’

‘Phew,’ said the bloke, pretending to be impressed. ‘That sounds as though you learned it by heart. Did your sister teach you?’

‘She says it sometimes. Actually the last time I heard it was when she was talking to my godmother. She’s Detective Chief Inspector Caroline Lyalt.’

The bloke’s thick black eyebrows wiggled and he looked seriously pissed off. Which was better than the smarminess.

‘You are well connected, aren’t you? I’m sure the DCI would advise you to answer the question, and I haven’t much time to go on playing games. We’ve got important things to do. When did you last see your friend Jay Smith?’

‘If Trish’s in court, then I need to discuss this with George before I talk to you.’

The plain clothes officer rolled his eyes upwards as though he was dealing with a special-needs specimen.

‘His sister’s partner, a solicitor,’ said Mr Black. ‘Have you got his number, David?’

‘Course.’ David pulled his phone out of his inside pocket and rang George. His calls were being diverted. David rang the switchboard at Henton Maltravers and said who he was and what he wanted.

‘Sorry, David,’ said Charlie, the receptionist. ‘He’s out at a client’s. Can I take a message?’

‘Just ask him to call me on my mobile,’ he said before
turning to the officers. ‘Until one of them’s here, I don’t want to say anything.’

There was an angry-sounding sigh from the man, but the WPC said quietly: ‘How would it be if we got in touch with DCI Lyalt to see what she thinks you should do?’

David shrugged, then nodded. The WPC went outside and they waited, not saying anything, for nearly five minutes. Then she came back and handed her phone to him. He put it to his ear in a gingerly kind of way, as though it might explode, and said, ‘Hello?’

‘David?’ said a familiar voice.

‘Caro?’

‘Yes, it’s me. It’s all right to talk to the two officers. They’ve told me about your friend Jay. I’ll leave a message for Trish in chambers so she knows what’s going on, but try to tell them everything you know about Jay and where he could be. He may need rescuing. OK? See you soon. Bye now.’

‘I didn’t realise Jay was lost,’ he said as he handed back the woman’s phone. ‘Sorry. We did our homework together in George’s office after school yesterday, then he took us to Pizza Express, then he got a cab and we dropped Jay at his estate and George and I went on back home to Trish’s.’

‘That’s better,’ said the bloke, while the WPC smiled and made notes. ‘Now all we need is George’s name and address and some idea of the time when you dropped Jay at the estate.’

David provided the information too quickly for the WPC, so he had to say it again more slowly, adding: ‘I think it was about nine o’clock, but I didn’t look at my watch or anything so I can’t be sure.’

‘And do you know, David, which entrance to the estate Jay was going to use?’

‘Where we always dropped him: at the Westgate arch, you know, where there’s the green-and-white map of the estate and concrete lumps on the path to stop cars going through.’

He knew he’d said too much when he saw the WPC’s face go cold and stiff.

‘What’s happened to Jay?’ he said for about the fifth time.

The head said he really thought the officers ought to say. But they didn’t. Instead the bloke asked him if Jay had ever said anything about his mother.

‘Never,’ David said, which wasn’t quite true. ‘What’s
she
done?’

‘You must tell him,’ the head said. ‘He and his family have been very good to Jay Smith.’

‘OK. Last night Jay’s mother was found with very bad injuries near the Westgate entrance to the estate, and no one has seen Jay since.’

The liver churned around in David’s gut like clothes in the washing machine.

 

Fran understood that Angie needed to walk alone after lunch and she didn’t ask any of the questions Greg would have, only reminded her the judge wanted everyone back in court by half past two.

Wanting to breathe, Angie crossed over the Strand and cut down Milford Lane, heading for the Embankment and the view down the Thames. It wasn’t like being in the country, but at least you could see out in both directions. And sometimes you could get a faceful of fresh breeze that didn’t smell of dust or other people or petrol.

Adam’s voice echoed in her head: ‘On really bad days, I used to fantasise about all the things I’d like to do to him.’

Adam’s temper was even worse than her own. She’d always known that, but she’d never thought about it in the context of the tanks until he’d reappeared in her life. Now she couldn’t think of anything else.

Looking back to the night of the explosion, she saw again the silvery-blue landscape and the frosty edge where the trees met the sky, and the whitish lumps of the sleeping sheep. And in front of it all, like a figure crossing the screen in a cinema, she saw Adam, muffled up against the cold, with a mask over his face like a pantomime villain, heading for the tanks with a bunch of wadding in his hand.

Was it possible? Had he hated his father so much that he could have stuffed something into the vents of the tanks, knowing that would make them explode? Had his furious misguided championship of her made him try to destroy the farm he thought was ruining her life?

The more she’d listened to this morning’s witness, the less she’d been able to hang on to any faint belief that the tanks could have blown up by chance or because of some negligence of CWWM’s.

Bong, bong, bong, bong. The quarter chimes of a vast clock somewhere close behind her made her move. Whatever the truth, she couldn’t see that she had any option but to get back into court now and fight on as though she still believed in her case.