I smile. ‘I wish! Aiden’s been offered a two-year transfer, but I wouldn’t be able to work.’
‘So what are the odds on you going?’
‘I would have said fifty-fifty, but with Noel coming back . . .’
‘Then Noel won’t come back.’
His response is instant, reflexive, a simple matter of fact. The sun will rise. The birds will fly south for the winter. And my son will not set foot on British soil again if it means my daughter moves thousands of miles away from it.
‘I mean it, Cat. If you want to go to New York, go to New York. But don’t you dare go because of Noel.’ He looks at me with a paternal sternness that’s as unfamiliar as it is hilarious. ‘And don’t go because Aiden’s pressuring you either.’
‘He’s not pressuring me. I’ve said I’ll think about it and he’s fine with that. If I don’t want to go, then we’ll stay, and he won’t say another word about it.’ I pause, considering the truth of what I’ve just said. ‘But that’s why I should go – because all he cares about is being with me and that type of love isn’t to be sniffed at.’
We share a smile that says, ‘Mum’. God knows, she put up with a lot more than what’s effectively the offer of a two-year holiday.
‘Anyway, enough about me.’ I let go of his hand, shifting position, breaking eye contact. ‘Ange. I take it it’s serious if Finn and Jacqs have met her?’
‘Serious?’ He lets out a long breath. ‘I don’t even know what “serious” means, to be honest with you. She makes me laugh. She’s kind. She’s got her own life, her own money. And before you ask, she’s forty-one, two kids – twelve and eight.’
‘Oh God, don’t get too serious then. I’m a bit long in the tooth for bratty step-siblings.’
‘Jesus, the thought of getting married again . . .’ He turns his head. I keep staring forward. ‘I really like her though, Cat. And I’ve told her all about you. She’d love to meet you. I’d love you to meet her.’
‘Whoa.’ I put a hand up. ‘I’m asking about her, all right. Can we take that as progress for now?’
‘I think you’d like her.’
‘I think I need to think about it.’
‘Christ’s sake, I’m not suggesting a two-day summit! Just pop into the pub one night, say hello.’
‘Pop into the pub? And can you promise there won’t be stuff going on in the pub, or in the backroom of the pub, that won’t make it awkward for me – you know, a sworn police officer?’ He takes too long to answer. ‘So that’s a no.’
He dodges the question again. ‘You won’t be a sworn police officer for much longer if you go to New York.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Just that you’ve always said it’s what you want to do. It’s what makes you happy. And you’re going to give it all up, just like that?’
‘I wouldn’t be giving it up forever and I’d get back in easily enough.’ If we came back. ‘And anyway, maybe a break would do me good. It gets under your skin after a while. The horror of what people do. The flippancy they do it with.’
The wine’s doing its thing. I can’t remember the last time I talked to Dad like this, or if I ever have, full-stop.
‘America’s not the easiest place to get into. Have you looked into all that? Visas?’ He’s trying not to sound hopeful.
I nod. ‘Worst-case scenario, I’d have to come back to the UK every ninety days.’
‘And that’s a bad thing? Thanks.’
‘Oh come on, Dad. It’s not like we’re . . .’ I struggle to find the word. It’s not ‘close’ because holy fuck, we’re close. You can’t not be close to the person who knows the worst thing you ever did. ‘It’s not like we live in each other’s pockets. We go months without seeing each other.’
‘Your choice, not mine.’
‘Not a choice, a necessity. In the eyes of the law, you’re an active criminal first, a dad second. And I shouldn’t be fraternising with active criminals. I shouldn’t be here now.’
‘Then why are you?’
I could say I was worried about him. I could tell him I’d been thinking about Mum and I had the sudden and overwhelming need to be near people who loved her.
I opt for the path of least vulnerability.
‘I’m working a case at the moment and we’ve run up against a few names – people you probably don’t know, but I’d say you’re aware of, and I just wondered . . .’
‘Well, you can stop wondering right now, sweetheart.’ Everything hardens; his tone, his face, the very air between us. ‘It works both ways, you know, Cat. I’d never ask you for information. You shouldn’t expect it from me.’
I twist around, frustrated. ‘Hold on a minute, I’m not after “information”. Christ, I think our relationship is complex enough without you becoming my snout, don’t you? I just want some context, that’s all.’ Anger rears its head. ‘Actually, what I want is for what you are to work in my favour for five bloody minutes. Is that too much to ask?’
‘It could be, yeah.’ The shutter coming down is stalled halfway. ‘What do you mean by “context”?’
‘I’m not asking you to implicate anyone in anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just set the scene for me.’
He sighs. ‘And whose scene am I setting?’
It’s too soon to mention Simon Fellows. His name is a total door-slammer. I need to start small, or at least smaller. I need to win trust then build up to him.
‘Do you know a man called Jacob Pope?’
‘I know he’s dead. Is that the case you’re working?’
‘No, no. He’s just . . . it’s complicated. How did you know he was dead? He only died this morning.’
He relaxes slightly, tension ebbing from his face in small, slow increments. ‘Every industry has its grapevine, Cat.’ Industry. ‘Rival gang thing, wasn’t it?’
‘Too early to say.’ The party line is also the truth.
‘From what I remember of him, it’s a miracle someone didn’t off him sooner.’
‘What? You knew him?’
‘Not really, just nodding terms. I think he worked for the Pierce crowd before he got sent down, but Aaron – you know, Frank’s nephew – he used to run with him. Frank used him on a few jobs but he . . .’
I cover my ears; hear no evil. ‘I don’t want to know, Dad. I don’t want to know details about anything to do with you, or Frank.’
‘OK, OK. Pope was a bit of hothead, that’s all I was going to say.’
‘That’s an understatement. He killed his girlfriend.’
‘No great loss to the world then, is he?’ A pause. ‘He was a bright lad, though, had a sharp brain. And he used to run with a far slicker crowd than the tinpot Pierces. He worked for this smart, dangerous bastard called Simon Fellows for years. Fellows gave him his P45 when he realised he was too volatile, too much of a liability. Is this the kind of context you’re after?’