Fallen Angel

‘Drive on,’ Michael said to Carlow. ‘Drive past the house and out the other end of the road.’

Carlow accelerated. ‘Where do you want to go? A hotel?’

Sally touched Michael’s sleeve. ‘But what happens if Lucy tries to –’

‘Maxham has someone in the flat round the clock, hasn’t he?’

Carlow nodded. As they passed the house, a reporter recognized someone in the car, probably Sally. She saw him pointing, his mouth opening in a soundless shout. The group on the pavement fragmented into scurrying individuals. Two men started to run after the car but gave up after a few yards.

Sally said, ‘But we’d need clothes and things.’

Yvonne glanced back from the front passenger seat. ‘If you give me a list I can fetch what you need and bring it to the hotel.’

‘Don’t forget your mobile,’ Michael said. ‘Which hotel?’

Sally folded her arms. ‘I don’t want to go to a hotel.’

‘As you like.’ Michael twisted his lips. ‘Well, where then?’

‘I don’t know.’

The car turned out of Hercules Road and nosed into a stream of traffic. A horn sounded behind them. For a moment no one spoke.

Michael looked at Sally. ‘What about David? We’ll need to find somewhere for him.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Because he asked if I’d like him to stay and I said yes. I thought we’d be at the flat –’

‘At the flat? So where was he going to sleep?’

‘He could have –’ Michael stopped.

‘No,’ Sally said. ‘We couldn’t have put him in Lucy’s room, could we?’

‘Maybe not.’

‘No.’

They were back in West End Lane now. Sergeant Carlow pulled over to the kerb.

‘Where to, then? Have you decided?’

Michael glanced at Sally. ‘Christ knows.’

In the end they went to stay with Oliver Rickford. It was Sally’s idea. She thought it would be better for Michael and better for her. Besides, Oliver had invited them. Michael was not enthusiastic, but on this occasion she was prepared to be more obstinate than he was.

‘If that’s what you want,’ he said a mild voice, ‘that’s what we’ll do.’

Michael’s habits were cracking and dissolving like ice in a thaw. Sally knew that he hated asking favours; he preferred to keep his family separate from his friendships; he hated betraying signs of personal weakness, and since Lucy had gone his behaviour had been one long confession of inadequacy.

Oliver lived in Hornsey, about half a mile south of Alexandra Park. There was little traffic and Sergeant Carlow drove fast, a man anxious to be rid of his awkward passengers. He took them south round the Heath and then north on Junction Road.

At first no one talked. Carlow and Yvonne, models of discretion, stared through the windscreen. Sally rested her hand on the back seat between her and Michael, but he appeared not to notice.

At last, as they were approaching Archway, she put her hand back on her knee and said: ‘There’s no real need for David to come to Oliver’s too.’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Michael turned and stared at her. ‘He’s expecting to stay with us.’

‘Couldn’t we find him a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast? I’m sure he’d be far more comfortable.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Oliver says he’s got two spare rooms, and it’s no problem having David as well as us.’

Sally lowered her voice. ‘But it’s not as if David can do any good here. I’m not quite sure why he’s come.’

‘I told you: he came because he offered and I asked him to. All right?’

She glared at the necks of the two police officers in front of them. ‘At present we’ve got enough to worry about. David’s just one more problem.’

‘David is not a problem.’

‘He bloody well isn’t a solution, either.’

Michael stared out of his window. Sally squeezed her fingers together on her lap and fought back tears. After Archway, they drove along Hornsey Lane, Crouch End Hill and Tottenham Lane.

Inkerman Street was a short road with a church at the far end. Two Victorian terraces, built of grey London brick, faced each other across a double file of parked cars. Most of the houses had been cut up into flats. Oliver’s was one of the exceptions.

A FOR SALE sign stood in the little yard in front of the house. Oliver must have been watching for their arrival because his front door opened almost as soon as their car pulled up outside the gate.

Michael’s fingers closed around Sally’s hand. ‘You go in. I’m going back into town.’

‘Why?’ Sally was conscious of the listening ears in the front of the car. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

‘At least I can try and make sure that Maxham does what he should be doing.’

‘If you think it will help.’

‘God knows if it will help. But I have to do something.’

Frowning with concentration, Oliver pushed down the plunger of the cafetière. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’ Then Sally changed her mind. ‘I’d like some sugar.’

He nodded and went to fetch it. Sally huddled in the armchair, hugging herself. Sugar was good for shock, for the wounded, for invalids. The gas fire was on full but she felt freezing. They were in a room at the front of the house, narrow and high-ceilinged, with a bay window to the street. The three-piece suite was upholstered in synthetic green velvet, faded and much stained. The Anaglypta wallpaper was dingy, and, near the window, strips of it were beginning to peel away. You could see where a previous inhabitant had put pictures and furniture against the wall, including a large rectangular object which had probably been a piano. Only the television, the stereo and the video looked new. Even they were covered with a layer of dust. Stacked along one wall were a number of cardboard boxes fastened with parcel tape and neatly labelled. She wondered how long ago they had been packed.

Oliver returned with the sugar. He made a performance out of pouring the coffee, reminding Sally incongruously of an elderly housewife, a regular at St George’s, who had invited Sally to tea. His neat, finicky movements contrasted with the chaos in what she’d seen of his home.

‘Have you had the house on the market long?’ she said brightly.