CHAPTER FIVE
“Trust you, Freddy Winter? You must be
joking. I’d trust a monkey up a gum tree before I’d ever trust you again.”
“For heaven sake, Carol, it was years ago.
You knew I’d never leave Helen.”
“Just like you knew I’d never leave Sean.”
“We’re even then.”
“Even? You walked out on me without a word. Not a word, Freddy
Winter.”
“I left you a note.”
“And that makes it OK does it?”
Winter sighed. “What can I say?”
Carol Brady picked at a mushroom pizza – her favourite – with her
fork. “Not a lot,” she agreed.
“So what the devil are we doing here?”
“If you need me to tell you that, Freddy, you damn well deserve
to be retired,” she retorted, finally lifting a piece to her mouth then
offering the oblique observation while still chewing on it, “Just like old
times, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it just?” He managed a weak grin. She was making fun of him,
he knew, but didn’t mind too much. It seemed a small enough price to pay for
her company, any company. He ate alone
too often these days, he realized. Nor was the irony lost on him that it should
have taken Carol Brady, of all people, to break him of the habit. “But you’re
not here because you still fancy me,” he commented and got stuck into a
delicious lasagne.
“True,” she agreed.
“So you’ll come to Canterbury with me?” She shook her head. “So, why…?
And don’t insult my intelligence with the old time’s sake routine, you know me
better than that.”
“I thought I did once,” she said with a mouthful. In spite of an ironic gleam in the violet
eyes, she spoke without rancour as far as he could tell. “A week,” she said
abruptly, “I’ll pay your expenses for one week. If you can track down our young
earring freak, I may join you or I may not. Either way, you’ll still get your
money.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“And I don’t want any favours.”
“A week isn’t long,” he pointed out.
“Long enough, surely? I seem
to recollect you were a good copper once. If you can’t flush him out, no one
can.”
“I’m flattered. But I’ll need more than a week.”
Again, she shook her head. “It would be a waste of your
time and my money.”
“I told you, I don’t want your money,” he repeated testily,
“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I already have a client…of sorts.” Even
as he spoke, Julie Simpson’s pretty, earnest expression leapt belatedly to
mind.
“And I told you, I don’t want any favours.” The violet eyes flashed
angrily and he resolved to leave that particular chestnut well alone, for now
at least.
“So why...?”
Carol glared across the table at him. “You
seem keen enough to put some old biddy’s mind to rest who hardly knew Liam,”
she remarked acidly, “but if it’s asking too much to do the same for his
mother...” They ate in silence for a while before she asked, “So when will you
be going? To Canterbury, I mean.”
“Soon,” he promised then, “I need to think it through
first. Let’s face it. I’m no more convinced it’s worth making the damn trip
than you are.”
Carol
nearly choked on her side salad, reached for a glass of water and took several
long gulps. As soon as she’d composed herself, she leaned across the table and
looked him in the eye. “Being less than sure has never stopped you in the past.
Why break the habit of a lifetime?”
“How would you know? We hadn’t set eyes on
each other in over twenty years before last week. I hardly think you’re in a
position to comment on my habits,” he returned evenly.
She sat back in her chair and let rip with a disparaging chuckle. “I
just know,” she said, “and it has nothing to do with leopards and spots. I know
you better than you know yourself, Freddy Winter, I always did.” The violet
eyes held his protesting gaze.
Winter looked away. It was true of course.
She had always been able to see right through him. That’s why he hadn’t been
able to face her all those years ago but left her a note instead. She’d have
known at once that he was making excuses. As it was, he’d gone running back to
Helen, tail between his legs. Nor had he ever regretted it. He loved her and
they had been happy. But could he honestly say, hand on heart, that he’d never
given Carol Brady a thought? Wouldn’t it
be more accurate to say he’d never cared to take too close a look at the nature
of his feelings for her? Yet she wasn’t
even his type. So what had he seen in her? She certainly had no dress sense.
What had Audrey Ellis said, mutton dressed as lamb? True, perhaps. But she had to be sexiest
looking woman he’s ever met all the same.
He looked up and grinned, remembering how sex between them had been
exciting and lasted ages. Helen, he suspected, saw sex as little more than a
purely functional means to a parenthood they would never achieve. He looked
away again and felt guilty, not about the woman sitting opposite him but
another, barely cold in her grave.
“Let’s suppose, just suppose I find this young man?”
“Let’s not, shall we?
Supposing always ends in tears. If we haven’t learned that much by now, I
defy even heaven to help us.”
“But just suppose...” he persisted.
“That it’s Liam? Look,
Freddy, we both know that the chances of Liam being alive are about as likely
as pigs flying over Brixton. But you
need something to get stuck into and I need...God knows what I need!
Reassurance…peace of mind… call it what you like…whatever it takes to stop me
crying myself to sleep every night. Right now, though, I vote we drop the
cobblers and enjoy the meal, okay?” Winter nodded. “Good.” She smiled brightly, but only with her mouth.
A strained sadness in the violet eyes refused to be so easily distracted. He recognized the signs, sensed intuitively
that she was baiting, using and playing with him all at the same time. It
bothered him only slightly that, for now at any rate, he did not mind in the
least.
They made small talk for a while then
Winter, without conscious intention, found himself telling her about Helen and
their life together. Carol was a good
listener and the evening passed pleasantly enough. Later, he drove her home. “Any chance of a nightcap?” he asked as she
climbed, expertly, out of the passenger seat outside the house in North Street.
She had always known, he recalled, how to be seductive without appearing
common.
“Sure. So long as it’s not the proverbial sort you have in mind.” She
flashed him a warning smile, went to the front door then spent a good few
minutes rummaging in her bag for keys before leaving it open for him.
By the time Winter reached the door of Carols’ flat, it was wide open and all the
lights were on inside. There was no sign
of Carol. He entered and looked around for her. Once inside, instinct took off
and fair shouted at him that something was wrong. “Carol?”
After a few seconds she emerged from the bedroom visibly shaken.
“Someone’s been here. Some bastard’s been in my flat, Freddy.” She let him take her arm and lead her to the
nearest chair. “Bloody hell, Freddy, someone’s been in my flat!” she repeated,
close to tears. He grabbed a bottle from the dresser, saw there were no glasses
to hand so poured a stiff whiskey into a mug and handed it to her. She drank,
reached for the bottle and poured herself another but only sipped at it.
“Is there much missing?”
“That’s the queerest thing. There’s nothing missing. Not
as far as I can tell, anyhow.”
“Any mess in the other rooms?”
“Nope, everything’s looking hunky bloody dory.”
“So...”
“How do I know some creep’s been going
through my things? I live here, Freddy, that’s how I know.”
“Are there any signs of a break-in?”
“You’re the copper, you tell me.”
As we went to check doors and windows, she got up suddenly and
disappeared into the communal hall.
Minutes later, she returned waving a brass key at him. “It’s my spare
key. I hide it under the stair carpet just in case. It’s always on the third
stair, never anywhere else. I found it on the second.”
“And where do you hide your front door key?”
“Under the hydrangea bush by the front door, why? Oh, I see what you’re getting at. But no one
knew, Freddy, no one at all. No one, that is, except Liam and I suppose Julie
may have known.”
“There’s your answer.” Winter
spread his hands despairingly. Would some people never learn? But I’ll check
everything out anyway if that’s okay with you?”
“Be my guest.” She drank some more whiskey, relinquishing her hold
on mug and bottle only long enough to ransack her bag for cigarettes.
Winter
did not take long confirming, to his own satisfaction at least, that there were
no signs of anyone having forced an entry. It followed, therefore, that any
intruder must have used a key. At the
same time, there was no evidence to suggest anything had been disturbed. True,
there was scuffed earth around the hydrangea but that didn’t mean a thing.
After checking that Carol’s bedroom windows
were secure, Winter was about to leave the room when, for no reason other than natural
curiosity, he paused at the door for a last look. There was nothing special about the room or
its decor. But it had a feel of Carol about it and it amused him that so
fanciful a thought should enter his head.On impulse, he crossed to a shelf above the bed. Deposited there,
one glass eye dangling on a thread and its head held together with sticky tape
was the ugliest teddy bear he had ever seen.
Winter it lifted up, gingerly, in case it should fall apart in his
hands. “Hello, Tweedledumb,” he greeted the bear as he might an old friend and
could have sworn its glass eye winked at him but, on second thoughts, put it
down to a trick of the light.
Gently, Winter replaced the bear on the shelf. As a
rule, he would not have described himself as a sentimentalist. Yet he could
easily see how this tatty old teddy bear had, in all probability, won the
hearts of children and adults alike since Victorian times. No less appealing
had been its erstwhile companion, Tweedledeaf, in spite of its having lost both
ears. Winter seemed to recall that it
had also been minus part of an arm.
His own sense of loss still raw, Winter’s
heart went out to young Liam Brady and he wished, not for the first time, that
he had made an effort to visit Carol and the boy during what must have been a
bleak time after Sean’s murder. He tried
to recollect what he could of Ralph Cotter but little came to mind except it
was generally believed he’d driven his car over that cliff deliberately, out of
contrition. His heart skipped a beat. It
was so weird that – accident or suicide – Cotter should have met his end in Monk’s
Tallow of all places. He made a mental
note to do some research on Cotter then, abruptly, left the room and returned
to Carol.
She had lit a cigarette but seemed calmer. “Find anything?” Winter shook his head. “So they must have
sussed out the keys, right?” He nodded. “In other words, serves me bloody right
for making it easy for them.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to, I know that look even if it has
been twenty odd years.”
“Are you sure nothing’s been taken?”
“Positive. The only things worth nicking are
in a drawer in the bedroom. That’s where I keep my passport, some cash and jewellery…the
usual stuff. It was the first place I looked. Nothing’s missing. I half wish
there was, it mightn’t feel so damn creepy.” She gave a shudder and inhaled on
the cigarette, something he’d noticed she rarely did. “I can’t even call the
police, can I? It’s not as if I’ve been burgled or anything. They’ll just think
I’m being hysterical.”
“Not necessarily.” Winter felt obliged to
contradict.
“Come off it, Freddy, it’s me you’re talking to. I bet you’ve dealt
with hundreds of people convinced they could smell smoke when there hasn’t even
been a fire.”
Winter shrugged. It was true, although thousands would have been
nearer the mark. But there was nothing to be gained by saying so. Carol was
upset enough. “I can call round first thing tomorrow and change the locks if
that would help?”
Would you? I’d appreciate that, I really would although...” her
voice tailed off and she appeared to become distressed again. “You don’t
suppose it could have been...”
“Liam? No, I don’t. Neither do you,” he said firmly while an image
of Miss Parker, calling an inattentive young Winter to order, seemed to stalk
every word like a benign ghost. “Liam’s dead.”
“So why have we been discussing Canterbury?”
Winter shrugged. “You tell me.”
“But you’ll go?”
“I’ve already been in touch with an old colleague there,” he
admitted. It’s not as if I have anything
better to do. Besides, Canterbury is a nice place. It will do me good to get
out of Watford for a bit.”
“I imagine it would do anyone good to get
out of Watford for a bit,” she observed acidly although Winter felt reassured
to see the pale face break into a rueful grin.
“I
have a spare room if you’d rather not be on your own tonight,” he offered. She
shook her head. “Or I can crash down on your sofa?”
“I’m a big girl now, Freddy. Just make some coffee and shut up, will
you?”
Winter, tight lipped, set about making the
coffee. It was turned midnight by the time he finally let himself out of Carol’s
flat. Driving home, it surprised him, as it always did, that there were so many
people about.
Carol
Brady put a chair against the flat door then checked every window again before
she went to bed. Tired but not sleepy, she tried to avoid thinking about Freddy
Winter but without much success. Eventually, she gave it up for a dead loss and
let her mind dwell on the young copper with whom she’d had an unlikely affair
more years ago than she cared to acknowledge.
She’d
gone clubbing with a girl called Liz something-or-other. (Whatever happened to
Liz something-or-other?). Liz had soon got off with a ginger haired lad and
she, Carol, was stuck with his mate, a pimply youth whose conversation was
limited to the occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’ punctuated by numerous grunts. She left
early, caught a shower and ducked into a McDonalds. A young man with masses of
black hair took her eye. She had bought
a hot chocolate then, ignoring numerous empty seats and tables, gone over to
him and sat down. “Do you mind if I join you? I’m not in the mood for being on
my own right now.”
“Me neither,” he had admitted candidly, a
sheepish grin lighting up what she read as a very caring face. They chatted like old
friends for nearly an hour.
“Can we go back to your place?” she had asked, amazed at the brazen
nerve of it.
“I don’t think my wife would
understand,” he chuckled, “How about your place?”
“My
husband would have a problem with that. Besides, we might wake the baby up.”
“You’re a mum? You don’t look old enough.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, even to
that hotel across the street if you’re game.” He followed her glance.
“Aren’t you in the least bit
worried that I might be an axe murderer?”
“I
don’t see any axe. Besides, I can take of myself. It’s like I said, I don’t want
to be on my own tonight.”
“Your
husband...”
“Doesn’t understand me...”
They had both laughed, extraordinarily comfortable with each other.
“There’s something you should
know.”
“So long as you’re not a
closet gay...”
“Worse, I’m a copper.”
In the present day, Carol chuckled into
her pillow. It had come as a shock and must have shown on her face. “Does that
put you off? It does a lot of people.”
“I can’t say it’s the best come-on I’ve ever
had”, she had to admit, “but I’m not most people nor am I easily put off. I’m
still game if you are?”
“Then what are we waiting
for?”
She had never done anything
like that in her life before. Even now, years later, she could hardly believe
it of herself.
Their affair lasted three
years.
Carol
sighed. Chalk and cheese they may have been but they had been good together.
Liam adored his new “Uncle Freddy” and they had even talked about leaving their
respective partners and moving in together.
While
she and Sean continued to drift apart, however, she’d never really believed
Freddy would leave Helen. Even so, it had come as a shock when he dumped her.
They had arranged to meet for a meal but he
hadn’t shown up. “It goes with the territory if you take on a copper,” he’d
told her more than once. She’d caught on fast. So she hadn’t give it too much
thought this time either but waited at a corner table for someone to come over
and tell her he’d telephoned to say he would be late or couldn’t make it at
all. A young waiter had eventually hastened across, full of apologies, and
handed her a white envelope. She’d known instinctively what was in it, made her
way to the bar and gone through several large scotches before finally getting
around to reading the letter. More angry than hurt that he hadn’t the nerve to
tell her face to face, she’d got very drunk and, to this day, could not
remember getting home. What she did remember, only too well, was thinking how
she was through with men and would ask Sean for a divorce.
Ten day later, Ralph Cotter turned up at the house in Chiswick and
shot Sean Brady dead.
Carol heaved a guilty sigh. She and Sean had rowed and she’d left
the house in a huff. If only she’d stayed in that night, things might have
turned out differently.
There had been nothing much else going on in
the world at the time so the case had grabbed the headlines. Even the
broadsheets gave Sean a good spread. She and Liam were portrayed as helpless
victims until she wanted to scream at everyone, especially the postman, to
leave them alone. But the greater the
tragedy, the more lucrative the rewards to be had and she’d be damned if she
would sneeze at any, whatever it took. Even in the thick of it all, though, it
had amused her how the notion prevailed that Sean must have been carrying on
with Jean Cotter. The more she or Jean Cotter denied and protested, the
greater a general assumption that it had to be true. (What other motive could there have been?)
Carol chuckled into the pillow. Ralph Cotter’s wife was
a big, buxom woman who liked to rule the roost. If news on the grapevine was
anything to go by, she had neither changed much nor wasted any time finding
herself another partner to terrorise.
Not that Jean was unattractive, on the contrary. Even so, butch was a word Carol always
associated with Jean Cotter. That may have suited Ralph, whom Carol had always
privately considered to be a bit of wimp, but it certainly would not have
suited Sean. Carol giggled into the
pillow. Sean liked a woman to be feminine, desirable and… passive. While she
had always taken care of her looks, passivity was, quite simply, not in her
nature. But she had adored Sean once so taken her mother’s advice.
“A girl who knows her onions will always let a man think he’s in control,” her mother
would say with a knowing wink, “It keeps him sweet and she gets to wear the trousers.”
Her parents, Carol reflected wryly, had enjoyed a good
marriage. “Nice work if you can get it,” she yawned into a pillow, violet eyes
filling with tears that obstinately refused to fall.
To be continued on Friday
