Carter sat on, completing a few outstanding reports and answering emails. When he could no longer focus, he pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and stood up to go. Would he have visitors tonight, or would they keep him in suspense? Half of him was desperate to know if his good deed had paid off, and the other half dreaded finding out that it hadn’t.
He flopped back down in his chair, floored by deep sadness. He thought of Marie, so eager to get home, even though her husband was no longer there to share it. It was a home she loved, full of things she and Bill had saved for and chosen together. She had happy memories, a classy powerful motorcycle, a cat, and now a friendly companion to chat to about the ups and downs of the day, someone to share a meal with, and a glass of wine. She was a very attractive woman. When the time was right, he was sure that Marie Evans would fall in love again.
All that was closed to him. He would never have a relationship now. Who would put up with all his freaky symptoms, all his fears and phobias, not to mention his obsessive tidiness? No one. And what if he never managed to get rid of his old mates? How would he explain that?
He remembered Laura Archer’s words: “You have to be prepared to face the fact that relationships will be difficult. You may find, in the early stages, that they are impossible. Just remember, all things change. Let nature take its course, let the healing begin, and who knows what the future may bring.”
At the time he hadn’t given much thought to relationships, he just wanted to hold onto his sanity. Now he wasn’t so sure. All at once, and for the first time in his adult life, Carter felt terribly lonely.
*
Robbie Melton leaned forward and peered at the pile of printouts on his desk. He was the duty CID officer on night shift, and he revelled in it. During the day, the main office was clamorous with noise, resounding with ringing phones, clattering printers, mobile phone ringtones, and officers laughing, cursing and shouting across the room. At night the room belonged to him. The only sounds were the low hum of the air conditioning unit, and muffled voices drifting in from other parts of the building.
Unlike some of his colleagues, Robbie didn’t use the quiet time to doss down in a corner, or watch a film on his phone. Robbie worked. Tonight, the streets and back alleys of Saltern were peaceful, and there were no calls to go out. He was able to give his full attention to Suzanne Holland.
Trouble was, he wasn’t getting very far. All he knew for certain was that this woman had secrets.
He had discovered quite a lot about her sexual preferences, but nothing about the woman herself.
He looked again at her photo and whispered, ‘There’s got to be more to you than this.’
He skimmed his notes. It appeared that the only people willing to talk about her were some of her many casual lovers from before her marriage to Tom. Everyone else — relatives, neighbours, workmates — either refused to talk about her or simply declared ignorance.
Robbie sighed. The sarge had wanted to know about Suzanne’s relationship with Tom Holland, but once again, he had hit a brick wall. There was only one person left that might know something about their life together, and be prepared to discuss it — Carter McLean. The one person he could not ask.
He considered the facts. Suzanne’s first marriage to the Spanish holiday rep, Harvey Cash, had failed. Their marriage seemed to have been short and not very sweet, ending in a divorce and a court case over some missing money. And that was all.
Why would no one talk to him?
Robbie pulled out a few sheets of paper dealing with Harvey Cash. If he couldn’t talk to Tom Holland, he’d have to make do with the first husband. If he was awake, or more to the point, sober.
He picked up the phone, having decided that maybe Cash would be more inclined to talk if he was drunk. Last time he had caught him in a stupor. If he could catch him in the early stage, when he was on a high, he might be chatty.
Harvey Cash told Robbie in no uncertain terms what he thought of being disturbed at four in the morning. Robbie apologised profusely and launched into his semi-prepared speech. He really didn’t know who to turn to, he said. Only Cash could help them. Slowly, Cash began to respond.
‘Yeah, well, you’re right, of course, I did know her better than anyone, but I don’t want to talk about the bitch.’ He paused. Robbie heard a glass clink. ‘I’ll just say that when you find her, dead or alive, I won’t be sending any flowers.’
‘Most people seem to think that she was just a fun-loving, sexy, good time girl,’ said Robbie.
‘Hah! She was certainly that to some people all right! But you want to speak to the ones who got close. They’ll tell you a different story.’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because . . .’
Robbie was certain he heard a strangled sob.
‘Just go to hell!’
The line went dead.
Robbie stared at the picture of Harvey Cash. ‘It’s about time I took a short holiday,’ he mused. ‘Spain might be pleasant at this time of year. And you, pal, can be my guide.’
*
Carter had brought home a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of the best Merlot that his local convenience store stocked. It was pretty bad, but the bottle was now almost empty. The sweet and sour pork, the spring rolls and the egg fried rice were unopened in the waste bin.
He sat on the terrace and stared out across the gardens. The view never bored him, but now he wished there was someone to share it with. He wondered where all this had come from. Maybe it was thinking about Joanne and Ray, or remembering Marie and Bill. The world seemed to be all couples suddenly, except for him. He sat watching the sky put on its nightly display, until only the darkest indigo and deepest grey were left. Time to turn in.
His bedroom contained a king-size bed, built-in wardrobes and matching furniture, all of it polished, all the surfaces clear.
He showered, and switched on the wall-mounted flatscreen television. He’d be decadent, lounge in bed with the last of the wine and watch TV until he fell asleep.
The wine finished, Carter turned onto his stomach and closed his eyes. Maybe tonight he would get a few hours of peaceful sleep. He drifted off.
An ice-cold, bony hand fastened itself around his ankle like a vice.
‘Hey! Got you, Carter, old boy!’
The room filled with the familiar stench of burning.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Couldn’t resist it! Sorry.’ Jack’s laugh echoed hollowly around the room. ‘Remember the game, Carter? “Do You Dare?” The kids loved it, didn’t they?’
Jack was reminiscing about the old days when they had supervised a group of deprived kids at an adventure camp. ‘Yeah, and then you’d organise a campfire, sit down with them and tell them scary ghost stories until their eyes were wide. Then you’d send them to bed, daring them to leave one exposed foot hanging out of the bed for the bogey man to grab! It’s a wonder they didn’t wet themselves!’ He laughed again.
Carter’s ankle still felt as if it was packed around with dry ice. He stared at it. ‘That wasn’t funny,’ he muttered.