Not that Murray would be around to see it.
The applause had died away. Murray gave a nod of appreciation to the audience, then stepped off the low stage. As he made his way back to his seat, to listen to the chief make her closing address, he saw Sean Dowling sitting with their old DS – now a colleague of Sean’s at the High Tech Crime Unit. As one, the two men stood up. They began clapping again, slowly this time. The rest of their table joined them. And as Murray walked down the centre of the room, there was a scraping of chairs and a swell of movement as, one by one, the friends and colleagues he had worked with over the years gave him a standing ovation. The drumbeat of clapping sped up, faster than his footsteps but not as fast as his heart, which was bursting with gratitude for the people in this room.
His police family.
By the time Murray reached his seat, he was blushing hard. There was a final cheer, and then more shuffling of seats as the chief wrapped up. It was a relief to have all eyes looking somewhere other than at him, and he took the opportunity to read his commendation again. It was the third he had received in his police career, but his first as a civilian. His first and last.
‘Well done, mate.’
‘Nice one.’
‘Beer some time?’
Dismissed from the formal part of the evening, Murray’s former colleagues were heading for the buffet table at the back of the room, clapping him on the back as they passed. It was rare to see food at an internal function; police nature to make the most of it when it happened. Nish pushed through and put her arms around him, whispering so only he could hear.
‘She would have been so proud.’
Murray nodded fiercely, not trusting himself to speak. Nish’s eyes were shining.
‘If I could cut in for a moment …’ Leo Griffiths, in uniform and holding a Diet Coke. A fleck of sausage-roll pastry on his tie suggested he’d been first in line for the buffet.
Murray shook the hand Leo proffered.
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘This is quite some do.’ Leo looked around the room. ‘The last commendation ceremony I attended served warm orange squash and a strict limit of one biscuit each.’
‘It’s a joint do. Part commendation, part retirement. Economies of scale,’ Murray added solemnly, using one of the superintendent’s favourite buzz terms. Nish suppressed a laugh.
‘Quite. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Economies of scale?’
‘Retirement. I wondered if you’d seen the advert for civilian investigators on the Cold Case Review Team?’
Murray had. In fact, no fewer than seven people had pointed it out to him, including the chief constable.
‘Right up your street, I’d have thought,’ she’d said. ‘A chance to put those investigative talents of yours to good use, and skill up some of the less experienced members of the team. Officially, this time,’ she’d added, with a pointed look. The positive outcome of the Johnson job had meant that Murray’s breaches of protocol had been glossed over, but he had been left in no doubt that – had he wished to stay in post – they must never, ever happen again.
Murray didn’t wish to stay in post. He didn’t want to stay in the force at all.
‘Thanks, Leo, but I’ve handed in my ticket. I’m going to enjoy my retirement. Do a spot of travelling.’ Murray pictured the shiny new motorhome on which he had paid a deposit and would be picking up the following week. It had swallowed a large chunk of his pension, but was worth every penny. Inside there was a kitchen, a tiny bathroom, a double bed and a comfortable living area with a foldaway table, plus a huge steering wheel that made Murray feel like he was driving a truck.
He couldn’t wait. His police family had been good to him, but it was time to cut the apron strings.
‘Fair enough. You can’t blame us for trying to keep you, though, can you? Where are you off to?’
In the weeks since Murray had shared his plans for retirement, several people had asked him this question. Murray’s answer hadn’t changed. For years he had lived his life by someone else’s clock. Sarah’s spells at Highfield. Her good days; her bad ones. Early shifts, lates, nights. Overtime, weekend working. Briefings; debriefs. In Murray’s retirement plans, there were no clocks. No calendars. No plans.
‘Wherever I feel like going.’
SEVENTY-TWO
ANNA
The smell of freshly mown grass fills the air. It’s still cold, but the promise of good weather is just around the corner. I’ve swapped Ella’s pram for a pushchair, and she babbles happily as I strap her in. I call Rita and put on her lead.
‘I’m going to get out of your way. I’ll be on my mobile if you need me.’
‘No worries, love. Anything in the kitchen you want us to leave out?’
Oak View is a hive of activity. There are five removal men, each in a different room, and a mountain of boxes already packed.
‘Just the kettle, please.’ In my car is a box of essentials – tea, loo roll, a few plates and mugs – to save unpacking when we get to the new house.
I chat to Ella as we walk, pointing out a cat, a dog, a balloon caught in a tree. We pass the forecourt of Johnson’s Cars, but pause only to catch Billy’s eye. He waves and I lean forward to take Ella’s hand to wave back. He’s busy speaking to a new rep, and I don’t want to disturb him.
The forecourt looks good. The Boxster sold with the first hint of spring. It’s been replaced by another two sports cars, their tops optimistically down, and their bonnets gleaming. Uncle Billy finally let me bail out the business, so I put in a cash injection that will keep the wolf from the door for a while, at least. Mark thought I was mad.
‘It’s a business, not a charity,’ he said.
Only it isn’t just a business. It’s my past. Our present. Ella’s future. Granddad Johnson took over from his father, and Billy and Dad took over from him. Now it’s down to me and Billy to keep things afloat till business picks up. Who knows if Ella will want to continue the tradition – that’s up to her – but Johnson’s Cars isn’t going under on my watch.
We walk along the seafront. I look at the pier and think about walking here with my parents, and instead of the anger that has filled the last three months, I simply feel overwhelmingly sad. I wonder if that’s progress, and make a mental note to mention it in my next counselling session. I’m ‘seeing someone’ again. Not someone from Mark’s practice – that would have felt too weird – but a thoughtful, gentle woman in Bexhill who listens more than she talks, and leaves me feeling a little stronger each time we meet.
Down a side street, leading away from the seafront, is a row of small terraced houses. The pushchair bumps on the uneven pavement, and Ella’s babbling increases. She’s making noises that sound almost like speech, now, and I remind myself to write down each milestone, before I forget it.
We stop at number five, and I ring the bell. I have a key, just in case, but I’d never use it. I’m already bending down to take Ella from the buggy when Mark opens the door.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Organised chaos. I know we’re early, but we were getting under their feet, so …’ I give Ella a kiss, holding on to her for as long as I can, before handing her to Mark. I’m still not used to it, but every time feels a little easier. There’s nothing official, no every-other-weekend-and-a-day-in-the-week arrangement. Just the two of us, still parenting jointly, despite our separate lives.
‘It’s no problem. Do you want to hang out here for a bit?’
‘I’d better get back.’
‘I’ll drop her off at the new place tomorrow.’
‘You can have the grand tour!’
We lock eyes for a second, acknowledging everything that’s happened, how new and strange this feels, then I kiss Ella again, and leave her with her dad.
It was easy, in the end.
‘Will you marry me?’