Killing Me Softly (9 page)

‘Why don't you drive me back home and we'll have tea by the fire?' she suggested. ‘No sense in staying out in this weather.'

He hesitated only fractionally, then answered with a quick smile, ‘That sounds like a very good idea.'

The car was roomy and luxurious and smelled of warm leather. ‘Mozart, country and western, or what?' he asked. He seemed cheerful and not at all put out or disappointed by the outcome of their visit though, as far as she recollected, he'd seemed quite keen on the house when he'd spoken of it in his office. She was sure he'd told her that he'd seen it several times and thought it might be just the thing.

She looked sideways at him as she settled back into her comfortable seat and mellow music swept softly through the car, aware of a breadth of shoulder next to hers, reminding her how athletic he was, despite his desk job. Had he then used this visit simply as an excuse for her company? The unexpected thought pleased her and brought a warmth to her cheeks, but was at the same time disconcerting. He wasn't the sort, David Neale, to use subterfuge. Or was he? She was suddenly deeply aware that she really knew very little about him, but also that she would indeed like to learn more.

‘I know of a property which might possibly be coming on the market quite soon,' she told him rather breathlessly. They were driving towards Lavenstock, the hills either side disappearing into the lowering clouds. It had come to her that Mary Bellamy's place, not too far out of the town, would suit David admirably. ‘I can't say any more than that just yet, but I could let you know, if you're interested. It's a very nice bungalow, going out towards Lattimer.'

‘Sounds fine. Not too large, I hope? Good, I was brought up in an Edinburgh semi. I'll need a bit more than that to accommodate my furniture, but anything too big is still inclined to give me a guilt complex.'

She thought of the beautiful house by the river, large by any standards, especially for one man, but failed to imagine him satisfied with anything less. Smaller, yes, but not less. Quick to catch her reaction, he explained, with his slow smile, ‘My father was an elder in the Presbyterian Church and I was brought up to believe that material possessions were not things to be enjoyed. That sort of attitude's hard to put behind you.'

She'd wondered once or twice about his background, but he'd never talked about it before.

‘Believe it or not, but when the parental home was sold up, there was a needlepoint chair worked by my grandmother, still in mint condition. My mother took great pride in the fact that no one in our house had ever been allowed to sit on it!'

Clare couldn't think of a comment that wouldn't reveal what she thought of that. An immediate picture of a dour, joyless Scottish household and repressive parents had sprung fully formed into her mind, a chilling impression. She looked at him to find him watching her quizzically.

‘You're meant to laugh at that! Though it's not as unusual as you might think, par for the course with the Scots, in fact. We're a canny nation. You must have noticed, the way I look after your money.'

She did laugh then. It was extraordinary, how different he was, away from Miller's Wife, how easy and comfortable she felt with him. Perhaps his upbringing had also taught him business and friendship should be kept separate. ‘Were you an only child, like me?'

‘Yes. It's not always easy, is it? Too much is expected of you.'

‘Not in my case. I always remember my childhood as very happy.' And who wouldn't, surrounded by love and good humour, with a sweet-natured mother and Sam for a father?

‘I can imagine. I've heard a lot about Sam Nash, and liked what I saw when I met him just now.'

The wipers flicked and the tyres hissed, and they came over the ridge and down into a Lavenstock grey and murky with drizzle, but with no evidence of the heavy rain they'd left behind. She saw the arc lights were on at the United football ground. The match was still being played, they could hear the roar of the crowd as they passed, and she was glad her father's Saturday afternoon hadn't been spoiled.

‘Dad'll be pleased they've been able to carry on playing,' she remarked. ‘Are you a football fan, too?'

He shook his head. ‘Squash is my game. It's my mission in life to get the lads at the Centre interested, but wouldn't you know? All they want to do is kick a ball around a pitch.'

The youth sports and social club, run by volunteers, was the latest function for the disused Hill Street Methodist Chapel. Its sports facilities were far outclassed by the new Sports and Leisure Centre on the outskirts of the town, but she knew Richie and his friends often patronized it, if only for its coffee bar and loud music. ‘You deserve a medal, truly, for putting up with that lot,' she told him, meaning every word.

‘Oh, I don't know,' he said with a shrug, making light of the time and energy he put into it, ‘they're not bad young folk. Bright. Knowing more than we ever knew about everything. Knowing nothing, all the same, of what's important, won't be told, either.'

‘I'd second that,' she said in heartfelt agreement, thinking of Richie.

‘Och, why did I come this way?' he exclaimed suddenly, sounding unusually Scottish in his annoyance. ‘I wasn't thinking. We've missed the ring road now.'

It would mean a circuitous detour, even after they got through the town centre, which was crowded with shoppers and the milling Saturday street market, straggling out of the Cornmarket and into every adjoining side street. He could only inch the car past traders and shoppers undeterred by the damp, past bright sweaters hanging like rows of prayer flags, then alongside the queues at the mobile butcher who sold the best and cheapest bacon for miles. His hands grew tense with annoyance on the wheel as they slowly manoeuvred past the half-price leather goods and the jewellery glittering under the stall lights at Alf's, next to the reject shoe stall with its piece of cardboard to stand the new shoe on while you tried it for size.

From then until they reached Clacks Mill, twenty minutes later, he relaxed, but didn't say much. Clare didn't mind, aware of feeling comfortable enough with him to let the silence continue. She glanced from the corner of her eye at his profile, liking his strong features, thinking he should wear different frames to his spectacles, or contact lenses; they made him look older, more severe, and tended to hide the kindness in his eyes.

They drew up in front of the house, behind her car, parked next to Tim's Discovery.

‘Come in,' she said, but he was checking his watch.

‘Look, this must seem very unmannerly, but do you mind if I pass up on that tea, after all? It's taken longer than I thought to get here, and there's someone I must see at four.'

He was suddenly his reserved, courteous self again, and it wasn't difficult to guess the reason for his change of heart. It could only be that he didn't want to have to exchange platitudes with Tim, which was all they ever seemed to manage when they met. She could hardly say: It's only his car that's there, it's only half-past three, it's unlikely he'll be back yet. She smiled brightly. ‘Of course not.'

‘Clare, thank you so much for giving me your time. I can't thank you enough,' he said, stiffly correct, then amazed her by touching her cheek briefly. She had the definite impression he would have liked to have kissed it, in the casual way people did, only she thought it might not have been casual, not with David Neale. She stood watching him drive off, feeling an odd mixture of emotions, the chief of which was a flare of such fury and intensity against Tim that she could scarcely get her key into the lock, the sort of anger she rarely allowed to break through. How did he manage it, even when he wasn't there, ruining even the innocent pleasures of a cup of tea by the fire with a friend? Well, we'll see, she thought, marching indoors, throwing off her coat, decision and determination in every step. She pulled herself up. Could she even contemplate such a thing, could she?

Yes, there was a limit to what anyone could be expected to stand. She'd played the victim for far too long.

Morgan came back to the Bagots late in the afternoon. He didn't say where he'd been but he was distinctly chuffed, looking unusually cheerful. ‘Where's Luce?' he demanded immediately.

‘Gone away for a bit,' Jem answered. ‘She had a letter. Her mum's in a tizzy because somebody broke in and pinched all her belongings. They knocked her down, too, her mum, I mean, so Luce dashed straight down there.'

‘She
what?
' Morgan's good humour seemed suddenly to be in danger of departing. ‘Since when has she ever found it necessary to play the dutiful daughter?' Then he laughed, looking hopeful. ‘No chance of Mummy kicking the bucket is there?'

‘Not a lot. She was OK, according to the letter.'

Luce's mother, Mrs Rimington, wasn't wealthy, but she owned a nice little cottage near Guildford, and the same grandfather who'd left the old house to Luce had left his daughter a bit of money, too. There hadn't been a Mr Rimington on the scene since Luce was four years old, so Luce and her sister stood to gain on their mother's death, but that possibility seemed unlikely to be imminent. Not from a bang on the head when she fell, which she seemed to have survived.

‘When did Luce say she'd be coming back?'

‘She didn't. I suppose she's looking after that kid sister and holding her mum's hand. She could've let us know when,' he added, ‘if your mobile had been here.' A permanent telephone wasn't an accessory they aspired to at the Bagots.

‘That's what a mobile's
for
, to have with you, you pillock! Pity she didn't let me know, I want to talk to her.
They'll
have to go,' Morgan said, jerking his head towards the ceiling, where footsteps could be heard from the room above. You couldn't escape noise, in this house. Carpetless floors and rotten stairs that creaked, gaps an inch wide in the floorboards. ‘I don't trust that Ginge.'

Although the house was technically owned by Luce, and she ostensibly decreed how it was to be run, it was Morgan who really controlled things. He was twenty-seven, older than the rest of them by several years, a big handsome bloke with hair waving to his shoulders, high cheekbones and beautiful teeth, deepset eyes, the young Clint Eastwood look that women seemed to go for. Jem envied him that, being dark as a gypsy himself and somewhat vertically challenged, as Morgan put it. Morgan liked a joke – when it wasn't on him – but it didn't do to let that fool you. He knew what was what, and you'd better not mess around with him, or get the wrong side of him. Even Luce had to be careful.

‘What's for dinner?' he demanded. ‘I'm hungry.'

Jem had somehow been landed with the job of cook, since he made a better fist at it than any of the others, which wasn't saying much. His menus relied heavily on rice and pasta, and whatever he called the resulting dishes, they mostly ended up tasting the same. But he'd taken that job that had come up, after all, and today they had Black Forest gateau. Better make the most of it, he didn't know how long he could be bothered with the hassle of the job, it was hardly worth it, only a few hours a week, anyway.

‘Col's getting some stuff in,' he told Morgan. Seeing the look on his face, he added, ‘Don't worry, he won't do anything stupid, he's keeping up with his medication. He's all right.'

‘Oh, sure, otherwise they wouldn't have chucked him out of that loony bin, would they?'

Jem was never quite sure when Morgan was being sarcastic. Col had been in a psychiatric unit for eighteen months, and then when the health service cuts had been announced, he'd suddenly been deemed fit to leave and find his own way in life, with the assistance of anyone prepared to help. Care in the community, the government called it. Pass the buck was more like it, Jem thought, but he was glad to have Col living with them again, even though Morgan did go on about him all the time. To change the subject, he said, ‘What did you mean about not trusting Ginge?'

‘I've heard things,' Morgan said obscurely. ‘If we don't watch it, we'll have the fuzz around. Luce should never have brought that stupid pair of gits here.'

Jem was inclined to agree. They were a menace, Ginge and his girlfriend, Sheena. Luce had taken pity on them when they'd been evicted from the squat where they'd been living, and though they'd sworn they didn't do drugs, it didn't take an Einstein to know that they were on something or other most of the time. Sheena was all right when she wasn't spaced out, little and dark and with a soft Gaelic accent, but Ginge was a pain any way round. He was a ferrety-looking bloke who spoke in impenetrable Glasgow gutturals, and Jem thought Morgan was right not to trust him, or the people he mixed with. He moved in circles where they'd sell their grandmother for gear.

The kitchen door was hurled open with the sort of last trump sound that normally heralded Richie's entry. The knob crashed into the side of the freezer with a loud metallic clang, and a shower of dead frond from the out-of-reach, moribund fern on top fell down like rain. Clare automatically turned round with a reprimand on her lips, momentarily forgetting that Richie was already there in the kitchen, foraging in the fridge for something to prevent him starving to death until supper time. Her hand froze on the tap and the water ran over the top of the kettle she was filling as the flung-back door was followed by the eruption into the room of Amy, shaking, her face a queer, greenish-white colour, her eyes enormous. She leaned against the wall, speechless.

Clare found herself by her side without knowing how she'd got there, but before she could ask her what was wrong, Amy began sobbing helplessly. ‘It's Daddy, it's Daddy ...'

‘Amy, whatever's the matter? Quick, catch her, Richie, she's going to fall!'