*
‘I’m sorry, it was the drunk comment, the way he just threw it in as an excuse. Oh, and what he said about Stephanie – how her shoes got her killed. Funny, I always thought that was Masters’ doing.’
As we head back to Dyer’s car, my phone’s buzzing in my hand, demanding my attention, but I’m more concerned with explaining my sweary outburst to my honorary boss for the afternoon.
And it’ll only be Aiden anyway. Asking me what’s the difference between a quiche and a flan, and do I want ‘poncey’ bread or will a crusty white loaf do?
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘You did well in there. Really well.’
I actually blush. I’m hoping her Jackie O sunglasses will keep her from noticing.
‘Did I? We didn’t get anything that helpful.’
‘Mind if I . . . ?’ She pulls cigarettes from her bag, offering me the packet. Briefly, a stupid desire to fit in, to bond, even, almost makes me accept, but the thought of kissing Aiden later stops me. ‘That stuff Masters said about Holly – that’s something. It’s more than “I did it”, which is all he’d ever say to us.’
Something scratches at me though, prickly heat on my brain. ‘So we believe Pope then?’
She lights up. ‘You don’t?’
‘Not sure. He gave it up quite easily. The minute I said we’d look into privileges . . .’
‘In his dreams.’
‘Well, yeah, but he doesn’t know that.’
‘He knew about her breast implants, though. I know the tabloids were bad but I don’t remember them ever mentioning those.’
We’re at the car now, mercifully shaded by the branches of a huge draping willow tree. Dyer sits on the bonnet to finish her smoke, but I don’t take it as an invitation. With my luck, I’ll scratch it.
‘A guy like Pope,’ I say, ‘I reckon he’d be a connoisseur. He’d know a fake pair from a real pair just by looking at her photo. And I mean, they were . . .’
‘On display,’ offers Dyer, taking a long drag. ‘Honestly, it was maddening. We had other photos – cute ones from when she was a kid; sitting on Santa’s knee, holding the school rabbit, that kind of thing. Papers still ran with the glamour shots.’
‘Surprise fucking surprise.’ I’ve sworn once in front of her, might as well let the floodgates open. ‘Anyway, look, I’m not saying I don’t believe him. I just don’t know how worthwhile it all was.’
She points the cigarette at me. ‘Have you met many convicted killers, Cat? Conducted many prison interviews?’
‘No. When I meet them, they’re usually still as pure as the driven snow, protesting their innocence.’
‘Well then, it was worthwhile. A learning exercise.’
Which is lovely, but with eight live cases and an inbox that growls at me every time I log on, I could have done with leaving the lessons for another sunny day.
Although I enjoyed it, if ‘enjoy’ can ever be the right word. I enjoyed Dyer, anyhow. She has the clout of Steele but with a kind of head girl ‘cool’. A heady mix. Something to aspire to.
I wiggle my phone at her. ‘Better check this. Someone’s after me.’
Someone being my sister, Jacqui. Five missed calls, no voicemail. One text.
Dad’s in A&E – the Whittington. You need to get here ASAP
15.59
‘Oh my God, my dad’s in hospital.’
Concern floods Dyer’s face – more of it than I’d expect from someone I only met a few hours ago. ‘Oh hell, Cat, what’s wrong with him?’
‘Um, I don’t know. My sister hasn’t said.’ Embarrassment bites hard. I know this isn’t normal.
Give me something, Jacqs. A sprained ankle? An aneurysm?
I try calling but her phone rings out. Is this a good sign? A bad sign? Is she holding his hand while he takes his last breath? Or is she on the toilet? Paying for parking?
‘Right.’ Dyer throws her cigarette down. ‘Where is he?’
‘The Whittington – bloody miles away.’
‘OK, OK.’ She opens the back door and throws her bag on the seat, murmuring to herself, making some kind of calculation. ‘Right, get in. This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to drop you at Plumstead station and you’re going to get the Thameslink to London Bridge, then the Northern Line to Archway. It’s the quickest way. I’d drive you there myself but it’ll take too long. We’d get to the coast quicker than we’d get to North London at rush-hour.’
I nod, succumbing to her efficiency. Or, at least I think I nod. I feel strange, slightly outside myself.
‘Unless you don’t want to be on your own, of course. In which case, I’ll drive you to the door.’
I hear myself saying, ‘No, no, it’s fine’ but everything’s not fine. It was fine ten minutes ago when I was seated across from a double-murderer. That windowless room, with its harsh lights and nailed-down table, seems like the softest, safest cocoon in the whole world, now that I’m out here dealing with the fact Dad might be . . .
God knows.
I know I should call Aiden. But if I call him, he’ll want to do something. Meet me there, wait outside, buy Dad grapes, donate a kidney? I’ve no idea what state my only remaining parent is in.
With a kick of shame, I tap out a text instead.
Can’t make picnic. Sorry.
Aiden deserves better, but even through the panic, I’m a pragmatist.
He can’t be anywhere near that hospital.
Aiden can’t be anywhere near my sister.
4
Hot weather always makes casualties spike and so, unsurprisingly, A&E is packed to the rafters with not just the usual mix of blood, guts and people with minor ailments who refuse to wait two days to see their GP, but also heatstroke and lager-stroke, judging by the state of a few louts.
Right now, I couldn’t care less about any of them. I only care about Dad. I want to make amends. Make promises we won’t keep. I want to change his dressing, push his wheelchair, lecture him about mixing his medication with his nightly Jack-and-Coke.
I need to find Jacqui.
I don’t spot her at first. My sister’s hair has been as blonde as golden wheat for as long as I remember and I’m thrown by its reddish hue. Saddened by it, even. By the fact I didn’t know she’d dyed it.
She’s smiling though, so that’s something. I’ll take that as a sign we’re not orphans just yet. Her now coppery head is dipped low, headphones in, watching something on her phone. As I get closer, the smile gets wider and the screen comes into full view. An episode of Friends we’ve watched fifty times already.
I stand behind, tug a headphone from her ear. ‘Is that The One Where Monica Scares the Shit out of Ross by Leaving a Message that their Dad’s in Hospital with No Other Frigging Detail?’
She turns her head, but not enough face to me. ‘You can’t have been that scared. I left the message three hours ago.’
‘I was inside a prison. I didn’t have my phone.’
She turns fully this time, her eyes rolling at my excuse, or rather the places my job takes me. Against the sterile white backdrop, her skin looks pasty, her face drawn. And the red definitely doesn’t suit her, although if I’m asked I’ll say it does.