Lynch knew the police force had plenty of weak links, those you could depend on to do your dirty work. Police officers who liked to court the press were common knowledge within the rank and file – ‘lamps’, shining their lights for all the wrong reasons. All Lynch needed to do was inadvertently mention to one that a recently suspended detective was being given a primary role in an international investigation. Fire in some previous alcohol-dependency issues, and they would run to their buddies in the media, salivating at the thought of being a reliable police source, yet again.
There were trustworthy journalists too, those who usually got the official low-down on high-profile cases, feeders for what the police wanted the public to hear. Some were held in high regard by the chief super. No, they weren’t the ones to run to with a spin like this. Like the lamps, they had to be of a particular type, the kind used to getting their information from the same desperate, attention-seeking, loud-mouthed eejits – officers they could depend on to give them the dirt. He could see the headlines now, tabloids screaming about the effects of cutbacks, the lack of high-calibre personnel available to tackle major crime, the police policing the police, one rule for them and another for Joe Public. Oh, yes, the chief super and O’Connor would soon feel the pressure once the media started spouting about an independent inquiry. There would be talk about rash judgements, and all kinds of crap. It was par for the course, but still the heat would be felt, and quickly. The chief and O’Connor would have only themselves to blame. He was doing the right thing, even if others lacked his foresight.
Before ringing Freddie Walsh, a lamp with a bigger mouth than Dolly Parton’s chest, he zoomed in again on the images on his PC. If he had missed something important about the photographs, it would undoubtedly give Kate the upper hand, and that wasn’t a pill he was prepared to swallow. Kate had her uses, and he would manage them to his advantage. She wasn’t one to look for attention or constant praise, but then again, she didn’t have to deal with the crap he had to. Not everyone had his drive and ambition, and he would use that to his advantage too.
SANDRA
WAKING UP ON the sofa-bed in the studio, I have no idea how long I have been asleep. Even though I haven’t painted for weeks, I still look on the studio as somewhere to clear my thoughts. Edgar described it as my place to be alone. I have my own key to lock it from the inside. He made a big deal about it being the only one. He made such a big deal about all of it.
I begin shuffling things around, laying out brushes, thinking about which colours I want to add to the palette. I have plenty of ideas about what I want to paint, but nothing stays for long. It’s been that way of late. I get excited about a concept, and then it fades. Next thing, I’m back walking around the studio like a demented person.
I’m usually less nervous when I’m painting, or thinking about painting. I remind myself that painting isn’t about jumping straight in. You can’t create something the way you can bake a cake. There are no recipes. It’s more complicated than that. Edgar giving you this studio was a waste of time – all you’re doing is making excuses.
Mixing the colours on my palette, I use the five bases I’ve used for ever – cadmium light yellow, red, ultramarine blue, burnt umber and white flake, but soon they blur into one another, and I realise I’m crying. I wipe my eyes, but my hands are shaking. I put the palette down. I feel a chill inside. I think again about Edgar organising the studio as a surprise gift. The girls had known about it. They had been in on his little secret. It had bothered me that they’d known and I hadn’t.
I curl up on the sofa-bed, doing that thing I used to do as a child when I was nervous, rocking myself back and forth. Somehow an emotional crevice has grown between me and Edgar. If anyone had asked me a few months ago about Edgar being unfaithful, I would have laughed at them, dismissed it as ridiculous. What’s changed? Maybe you’re the one who has changed. Have you ever thought about that?
I can’t sit still. I walk over to the two long studio windows looking onto the garden. Again, I think about finding things in the wrong places, how I had blamed Edgar at first. He’d looked at me as if I was mad. Then, talking to the girls yesterday, they hadn’t believed me either. Alice was the only one who said I might have imagined it, but the other two were thinking it.
The one place where nothing had been touched was the studio. I’m the only one who knows where I keep the key. Could he be the one moving things around, and denying it? If he’s lying about being unfaithful, he could be lying about that too – but why?
After finding the petals, I stopped taking the medication. Then he started leaving the tablets with a glass of water beside my bed. He must have been checking whether or not I was taking them. I didn’t tell the girls about that, or that I’ve been crunching the tablets and flushing them down the toilet. The petals had been a warning that I needed to pull myself together.