A Rush of Blood

Forty-three

George Regan wiped the last trace of shaving gel from a corner of his moustache, and buttoned his shirt. He fixed his tie, looking in the mirror when he was finished to check that the knot was to his satisfaction, then stepped back into the bedroom from the shower room.

‘Fastidious bugger, aren’t you,’ said Jen, not unkindly, tying the green dressing gown which hung loosely about her shoulders.

‘One of us has to be,’ he retorted, casually. . then snapped his mouth shut, as if that might pull his words back in, but they were gone, out there in the air beyond recall, doing their insidious damage.

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, quietly. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be as lively as you want. I’m sorry if I’ve let myself slip. But I do try, George.’

He put his arms around her. ‘I know you do, love, and I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not getting at you, honest. The fact is, I’m worried sick about you. I see you fading away, day by day, and it’s gutting me. I’ve been hoping that my new job and the move to Longniddry would help, but it hasn’t, has it?’

‘It will do.’ She pulled away from him, brushing strands of grey-streaked, lustreless hair from her forehead. ‘Let me go, now, and I’ll make your breakfast.’

He watched her as she left, not quite shuffling but on the way there. Jen was still two years short of forty, but, he thought, if she was ever to be put in a police line-up for a witness, they would have to look for women pushing fifty to accompany her. It had almost happened too; there had been a shoplifting incident in the local co-op that had taken a bit of string-pulling by Neil McIlhenney, at area manager level, to make go away.

Five years earlier, losing a child had been the worst thing George had ever imagined. What he had not ever imagined was that it would happen to Jen and him. But it had, and it had taken half of their lives too. Fastidious? Yes, he was, and he had become so; it was his conscious way of cutting himself off from the man who had suffered all that pain. He tried hard to see someone else in the mirror. . yet he never quite succeeded, for all the cotton-rich shirts, the silk blend suits and the inherited Crombie overcoats.

Jen had gone in the opposite direction. In the aftermath of their son’s death he had suggested that they might try for another child; her fury had been so terrifying that he had never thought to hint at it again. Since then she had withdrawn more and more; she was a soul cast adrift, and her physical being seemed to be disintegrating a little more each day. Their lost boy was a taboo subject, for all that his presence hung around her like a shroud. There was no possibility of another child because they never had sex; the last time had been months before, and then she had been so rigid that he had stopped halfway through. He wanted to help her, but she seemed to have moved beyond his emotional reach, and no more counselling was going to do any good.

She was at her best when she was busy. Jen herself might have gone to the dogs, but the house was as pristine as George. She fed him well too. When he joined her in the kitchen, the kettle was boiling, the toaster was loaded and she stood cracking two eggs into the frying pan. He went to help her, but she told him to sit down, so he did, at the kitchen table, switching on the radio as he passed.

It was tuned to Forth Two; Jen’s day-time companions were Bob Malcolm and Spike Thomson. ‘And now Forth news,’ a female voice announced. ‘Police in Edinburgh are remaining tight-lipped about a series of raids carried out across the city yesterday evening, believed to be related to the sex trade. This follows the discovery in Leith yesterday afternoon of the body of massage parlour manager Linas Jankauskas. Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire, head of CID, later confirmed that his death is being treated as murder.’

Indeed? Regan thought. Makes me all the happier I’m out here in my nice county backwater.

‘Edinburgh fire and rescue officers confirmed late last night that two people, believed to be husband and wife, died last night in a fire in a house in Cramond. Investigators are provisionally linking the tragedy to faulty wiring on a kitchen appliance.’

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked Jen, as she buttered his toast. . all she ever had for breakfast was tea and a yoghurt. ‘I’m going to check every plug in this kitchen.’

‘You needn’t bother,’ she replied. ‘I do that all the time. Everything’s perfectly fine.’

‘That’s good to know.’ She laid his breakfast before him, on a tray. ‘What are you doing today?’

‘Oh, just the usual. This house takes a lot of looking after, you know.’

‘And so do you, love. Why don’t you get on the bus, go up to town like you used to? Hit the shops, give the credit card a battering. Look what’s happened since you stopped going to M amp;S and Debenhams; the whole economy’s fucked.’

She smiled, kindly; she had always been kind. ‘I think it’s taken more than me to do that,’ she said. ‘If it’ll make you happy, I’ll see if I can get an appointment at the hairdresser.’

That would make me very happy, George thought, but before he had a chance to say so, his mobile sounded. He picked it up, instantly fearful that he was about to be called into Edinburgh to help with Operation Whatever-the-hell-it-was, but when he checked the number he saw that the caller was within the county.

‘Regan,’ he answered, curious.

‘Detective Inspector,’ a man said. ‘This is Andrew Fairley, Witches’ Hill golf club. Sorry to be on so early, but something else has happened. It’s. . ah, I’m still trying to take it in. I’d be grateful if you could come to the club, as soon as you can.’