“And on Gerry's work nights, you met Querashi?”
“That's how it was.”
They couldn't meet at the Burnt House for fear that Basil Treves—“that limp-dick Treves” was how Hegarty identified him—would tell someone, specifically Akram Malik, his fellow town councillor. They couldn't meet in Jaywick Sands because the community was small and word could get back to Gerry, who wasn't about to put up with his lover doing the business with other blokes. “AIDS and all,” Hegarty added as if he felt the need to explain Gerry's incomprehensible position to the police.
So they met in the pillbox on the beach. And that's where Cliff was, waiting for Querashi, on the night he died.
“I saw it happen,” he said, and his eyes grew cloudy as if he were revisiting what he'd seen that night. “It was dark, but I saw the lights of his car when he got there cause he parked near the edge of the cliff. He came to the steps and looked round, like he'd heard something. I could tell that, because I could see his silhouette.”
After a pause at the top of the steps, Querashi had begun his descent. His fall began not five steps from the top. He went down hard and toppled—head over heels over head over heels—all the way to the bottom of the cliff.
“I just froze.” Hegarty had begun to perspire. The bauble on his lip ring danced. “I didn't know what to do. I couldn't believe he'd fallen. … I kept waiting for him to get up …dust himself off. Maybe laugh about it or something, like he was embarrassed. Anyway, that's when I saw the other one.”
“Someone else was there?” Emily said quickly.
“Tucked behind some gorse just at the cliff top.”
Hegarty described the movement he'd seen: a figure slipping out of the shrubbery, descending a few steps, removing something from round an iron banister at either side of the concrete steps, then slipping away.
“That's when I figured someone'd done him in,” Hegarty concluded.
RACHEL SIGNED HER name with a flourish on every line that Mr. Dobson ticked off for her. It was so scorching in his office that her thighs were sticking to her chair and droplets of sweat plopped from her eyebrows onto the documents like tears. But she was far from crying. On this day of all days, crying was the last thing on her mind.
She had used her lunch hour to pedal over to the Cliff top Snuggeries. She had pedalled furiously without regard for heat, traffic, or pedestrians, working herself into a lather in order to get to the Snuggeries and Mr. Dobson before someone else purchased that one remaining flat. Her spirits were so elevated that she didn't bother to duck her head from the stares of the curious as she usually did when out among strangers. What was their gawping when at last her future was being settled?
She had honestly believed her final words to Sahlah on the previous day. Theo Shaw, she had said, would come round. He wouldn't leave Sahlah to fend for herself. It wasn't in Theo Shaw's nature to desert someone he loved, especially not during a time of need.
But what she hadn't counted on was Agatha.
Rachel had heard the news about Mrs. Shaw's stroke within ten minutes of opening the shop that morning. The old woman's condition was the talk of the High Street. Rachel and Connie had no more than uncovered the necklaces and bracelets in the main display case, when Mr. Unsworth from Balford Books and Crannies popped round with an oversized get-well card for them to sign.
“What's this, then?” Connie wanted to know. The card was shaped like an enormous rabbit. It looked more suitable for wishing a child Happy Easter than for sending fond regards to a woman teetering on the edge of death.
Those three words were all Mr. Unsworth needed to hold forth on the subject of “apoplectic seizures,” which is what he called Mrs. Shaw's stroke. That was typical of Mr. Unsworth. He read the dictionary between customers, and he always liked to puff himself up by using words that no one except him understood. But when Connie—not only unintimidated by his vocabulary but also unimpressed with anything that didn't directly relate to swing dancing or selling a bauble to a customer—said, “Alfie, what'n hell're you squawking about? We got work to do,” Mr. Unsworth dropped Mr. Chips in favour of a more direct manner of communicating:
“Old Agatha Shaw blew a brain fuse, Con. It happened yesterday. Mary Ellis was with her. They got her in hospital, and she's hooked up to machines every which way to Sunday.”
A few minutes’ conversation was enough to glean the details, the most important of which was Mrs. Shaw's prognosis. Connie wanted to learn it because of what the elderly woman's continuing health meant to the redevelopment of Balford-le-Nez, a plan in which the owners of the High Street shops had a natural interest. Rachel wanted to learn it because of what Mrs. Shaw's present condition could mean to her grandson's future behaviour. It was one thing to be certain that Theo would do his duty to Sahlah under normal circumstances. It was another to expect him to take up the burden of marriage and fatherhood in the midst of a family crisis.
And what Rachel had learned from Mr. Unsworth—who'd had it from Mr. Hodge at Granny's Bakery, who'd had it from Mrs. Barrigan at Sketches, who was Mary Ellis's paternal aunt—was that Mrs. Shaw's current situation constituted a family crisis of major proportions. True, she would live. And while this at first made it likely that Theo would indeed come round to accept his manly responsibilities to Sahlah Malik, when Mr. Unsworth had expounded upon Mrs. Shaw's condition at greater length, Rachel saw things differently.
He used words like constant care and intensive rehabilitation, words like devotion of a loved one, thank her lucky stars and she's got that boy. Hearing all this, it didn't take long for Rachel to understand that whatever his responsibilities were to Sahlah, Theo Shaw faced greater responsibilities to his grandmother. Or at least that was how he was likely to see it.
So all morning long, Rachel had watched the clock. She'd been too much at odds with her mother recently to ask for time to go to the Snuggeries. But the moment the second hand swept past twelve, she was out of the shop and bent over her handlebars, pumping like a cyclist in the Tour de France.
“Brilliant,” Mr. Dobson said as she affixed her signature to the final line of the purchase agreement. He removed it from the table and waved it in the air, as if drying the ink. He beamed at her and said, “Brill-i-ant. Very nice indeed. You won't regret the purchase for a moment, Miss Winfield. A tidy investment, these flats are. ‘Nother five years and your money will be doubled. Just see if it won't. Clever of you to snap up this last one before someone else got to it, ‘f you ask me. But I expect you're a clever girl about most things, aren't you?”
He went on to chat about mortgage advisors, building societies, and investment officers at the local Barclays, Lloyds, or NatWest. But she wasn't really listening. She nodded and smiled, wrote the down-payment cheque that would decimate her account at Midlands, and thought of nothing but the need to complete this piece of business as quickly as possible so that she could ride over to Malik's Mustards and be there to offer Sahlah her support when the news of Agatha Shaw's condition reached her ears.
Doubtless, Sahlah would interpret this news exactly as Rachel herself had done, seeing it as an immovable impediment to a life with Theo and their baby. There was no telling what sort of tailspin this piece of information would send Sahlah into. And since people in tailspins of worry and confusion were liable to make hasty decisions which they later regretted, it only made sense that she—Rachel Lynn Winfield—be in the immediate vicinity should Sahlah begin to think it necessary to do something rash.
Despite the need for haste, however, Rachel couldn't help taking just a minute to have a peek at the flat. She knew she'd be living in it soon enough—they'd be living in it soon enough—but still it seemed like such a dream to actually have the flat at last that she knew the only way to make the dream real would be to walk from room to room, to open cupboards, and to admire the view.
Mr. Dobson parted with the key, saying, “‘F course, ’f course,” and adding “Naturellement, chére mademoiselle,” with a waggle of his eyebrows and a leer that, Rachel knew, were supposed to demonstrate that he wasn't the least put off by her face. She ordinarily would have responded curtly to a display of such spurious bonhomie, but this afternoon she felt only good will for her fellow man, so she shook back her hair to unveil the worst of her deformities, thanked Mr. Dobson, clutched the key in her palm, and took herself off to Number 22.
There wasn't much to it: two bedrooms, one bathroom, a sitting room, a kitchen. It was on the ground floor, so a tiny terrace directly off the sitting room overlooked the sea. Here, Rachel thought placidly, they would sit in the evenings, with the baby lying in its pram between them.
Looking out of the sitting room window, Rachel drew in a happy breath and pictured the scene. Sahlah's dupattā rustled in the North Sea breeze. Rachel's skirt moved gracefully as she rose from her chair to adjust the blanket over the chest of the sleeping infant. She cooed at him—or her, possibly—and gently removed a miniature thumb from the cherub mouth. She caressed the softest little cheek she could ever remember touching, and she brushed her fingers lightly against hair that was …what colour? she wondered. Yes, indeed. What colour was his hair, or her hair, for that matter?
Theo was blond. Sahlah was deeply brunette. Their child's hair would be a combination of the two, as would his skin be a combination of Theo's fair complexion and Sahlah's olive tones.
Rachel was simultaneously enchanted by and utterly taken with the thought of this miracle of life that Sahlah Malik and Theo Shaw had created between them. In that moment, she realised that she could hardly wait the months that she knew she had to wait to see the form this miracle would actually take.
Suddenly, she understood how very good she—Rachel Lynn Win-field—was and could continue to be for Sahlah Malik. She was more than a friend to her. She was a tonic. Exposed to her on a daily basis in the weeks and months until her delivery, Sahlah could only grow stronger, happier, and more optimistic about the future. And everything—everything—would work out in the end: Sahlah and Theo, Sahlah and her family, and most of all Sahlah and Rachel herself.
Rachel clasped this knowledge to herself with growing bliss. Oh, she had to dash to Sahlah at the mustard factory to share it all with her. She only wished she had wings so that she could fly there.
The ride across town was gruelling in the fiery sunlight, but Rachel hardly noticed. She pedalled along the sea route at a furious clip, swigging back tepid water from her bottle whenever the slope of the seaside esplanade allowed her to coast. She thought not at all of her discomfort. She thought only of Sahlah and of the future.
Which bedroom would Sahlah like to have? The front one was larger, but the back one faced the sea. The sound of the sea might lull the baby. It might lull Sahlah as well, in those moments when the responsibilities of motherhood weighed too heavily upon her shoulders.
Would Sahlah like to do the cooking for the three of them? Her religion placed restrictions on her diet, and Rachel herself was easier than easy when it came to adjusting to that sort of thing. So it made sense for Sahlah to cook for them. Besides, if Rachel was to be the breadwinner while Sahlah remained home with the baby, Sahlah would probably want to cook their meals as Rachel had seen Wardah Malik do for Sahlah's dad. Not, of course, that Rachel was going to act the part of anyone's dad, least of all the dad of Sahlah's baby! That would be Theo. And Theo would act that role eventually. He would do his duty and meet his obligations, in time and when his gran was recovered.
“’Cording to the doctors, she could live for years,” Mr. Unsworth had told them that morning. “She's a real battleship, is Mrs. Shaw. A bird like that is one'n a hunnerd. And all's the more better for us, right? She won't die till Balford's back on its feet. You wait and see, Con. Things're looking up.”
So they were. Every which way, things were looking up. And as Rachel made the final left turn into the old industrial estate at the north end of the town, she felt near to bursting with the need to pour her happiness like balm over Sahlah's worries.
She climbed off her bike and leaned it against a half-full skip that was open to the air. This was redolent with the smell of vinegar, apple juice, and rotting fruit, and it buzzed with flies. Rachel flailed her hands round her head to drive the pesky insects away. She took a last gulp of water, settled her shoulders, and made for the factory door.
Before she could get to it, however, it opened as if in anticipation of her arrival. Sahlah stepped outside. She was followed immediately by her father, not garbed all in white, which was usual for him during his working hours in the factory's experimental kitchen, but dressed in what Rachel thought of as mufti: a blue shirt and tie, grey trousers, and nicely polished shoes. A luncheon date between father and daughter, Rachel concluded. She hoped her news about Agatha Shaw didn't spoil Sahlah's appetite. But then again, no matter if it did. Rachel had other news that would revive it.
Sahlah saw her at once. She was wearing one of her fancier necklaces, and at the sight of Rachel, her hand went up to grip it lightly as if it were a talisman. How often had she seen that gesture in the past? Rachel wondered. It was the primary sign of Sahlah's anxiety, and Rachel hurried forward to put this at rest.
“Hello, hello,” she called out gaily. “Beastly hot again, isn't it? When d'you think the weather's going to break? That fog bank's been out there in the sea for ages, and all we need's some wind to blow it this way and we'll be cooled off. D'you have a minute, Sahlah? ’Lo, Mr. Malik.”
Akram Malik said his good afternoon formally, the way he always said it, just like he was addressing the Queen. And he neither studied her face nor looked away from it hastily the way other people did, which was one of the reasons that Rachel liked him. He said to his daughter, “It will take a moment to fetch the car, Sahlah. Speak to Rachel while I do so.”
When he had walked off, Rachel turned to Sahlah and impulsively hugged her. She said in a low voice, “I've done it, Sahlah! Yes, indeed. I've done it. Everything's taken care of now.”
Beneath her hand, she felt the tension immediately drain out of Sahlah's stiff shoulders. Her friend's fingers dropped from the fawn stone pendant of the necklace, and she swung to face Rachel.
“Thank you,” she said earnestly. She reached for Rachel's hand and lifted it as if she meant to kiss her knuckles in gratitude. “Oh, thank you. I couldn't believe you'd abandon me, Rachel.”
“I'd never do that, would I? I told you so a thousand times. We're friends till the end, you and me. The minute I heard about Mrs. Shaw, I knew how you'd feel, so I went out and did it. Have you heard what happened?”
“The stroke? Yes. One of the town councillors phoned Dad about it. That's where we're going: to the hospital to pay our respects.”
Theo would doubtless be there, Rachel realised. She felt an interior niggle at this news, but she couldn't put a name to what it was. She said stoutly, “That's real nice of your dad. But that's what he's like, isn't he? And that's why I'm sure—”
Sahlah went on as if Rachel hadn't spoken. “I told Dad they'd probably not let us near her room, but he said that's not the point. We're going to the hospital to show our support to Theo, he said. He was generous with his help when we started using computers in the factory, and this is how we must respond to his present troubles: in friendship. The English form of lena-dena. That's how Dad explains it.”
“Theo'll appreciate that,” Rachel said. “And even if this stroke of his gran's means he can't do his duty by you now, Sahlah, he'll remember how good you acted in going to the hospital to visit. So when his gran's all better, you'll be together, you and Theo, and he'll do his duty like a proper dad. Just wait and see.”
Sahlah had still been holding on to Rachel's hand. But now she released it. “Like a proper dad,” she repeated. Her fingers climbed to seek the pendant once more. It was the finishing piece on one of Sahlah's least successful necklaces, an undefined mass of what looked like limestone but was—according to Sahlah's explanation—a fossil from the Nez. Rachel had never much liked it and had always been glad that Sahlah had never offered it for sale at Racon. The piece was far too heavy, she thought. People didn't want their jewellery to hang upon them like a guilty conscience.
“Sure,” she said. “‘Course, things're bad at the moment, so he won't be seeing the future too clear. That's why I moved fast without talking to you. Once I heard about what happened to Mrs. Shaw, I saw that Theo couldn't really do right by you while he was getting her back on her feet. But he will do right by you eventually, and until he does, you need someone to take care of you and the baby, and that someone's me. So I went to the Cliff top—”
“Rachel, stop,” Sahlah said quietly, and she'd taken to clutching her pendant so hard that Rachel could see that her hand was shaking. “You said everything was taken care of. You said …Rachel, haven't you arranged …? Got me the information …?”
“I've got the flat, is what I've done,” Rachel said joyfully. “I just signed the papers. I wanted you to be the first to know because of what's happened to Mrs. Shaw. She's going to need someone to take care of her, see. Constant care is what they're saying. And you know Theo: He'll prob'ly dedicate himself to her till she's all recovered. Which means he won't be taking you away. He could do that, of course, but I sort of don't think he will, do you? She's his gran and she's raised him, right? And he'll see his first duty to her. So I got the flat so you have a place for you and the baby till Theo's got himself all clear on what his second duty is. Which is you. The two of you, that is.”
Sahlah closed her eyes as if the sun were suddenly too bright. At the end of the lane, Akram's BMW came rumbling towards them. Rachel considered whether she ought to announce her purchase of the flat to Sahlah's dad. But she rejected that plan in favour of letting her friend find the right time to break the news. She said, “You'll have to hold out a month or six weeks till everything goes through, Sahlah: the building society, the loan, you know. But we c'n use the time to look at furniture and buy our linens and stuff like that. Theo c'n go with us if he wants. That way, the two of you c'n choose things that you c'n use later, when you're with him instead of with me. See how it'll all work out?”
Sahlah nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do see.”
Rachel was delighted. “Good. Oh good. So when d'you want to start looking? There's some decent shops in Clacton, but I expect we might do better for ourselves if we went to Colchester. What d'you think?”
“Whatever's best,” Sahlah said. Her voice was still low and her eyes were on her approaching father. “You decide, Rachel. I'll leave it to you.”
“You're seeing it my way now, and you won't regret it,” Rachel said confidently. She put her head nearer Sahlah's as Akram braked the car a few feet away and waited for his daughter to join him. “You c'n tell Theo when you see him, now. The pressure's off everyone. So everyone can do what's completely right.”
Sahlah took a step towards the car. Rachel stopped her with a final remark. “Ring me when you're ready to start looking, okay? For furniture and linens and dishes and things. You'll want to break the news to everyone, and I know that's likely to take a bit of time. But when you're ready, we'll start our shopping. For the three of us. Okay, Sahlah?”
Her friend finally looked away from her father, meeting Rachel's gaze with eyes that seemed somehow unfocused, as if her mind were a million miles away. Which, of course, it would be, Rachel realised. There were so many plans to make.
“Ring me?” Rachel repeated. “Whatever's best,” Sahlah replied.