A Rush of Blood

Fifty-nine

George Regan willed himself not to shiver in the cold evening air; he stood as close as he could to the floodlights that had been set up, hoping to absorb a little of their energy in the form of heat. The old quarry seemed to be a magnet for mist, adding dampness to the list of his discomforts. His new old Crombie coat was hanging on a peg in the Haddington office, ornament perhaps, but certainly no use to him at that moment, and he cursed his lack of foresight, no, his idiocy, in forgetting one of the tenets of policing, that every time you went on a call, you were partly blind in that you could never be quite certain of what was waiting for you out there.

But he kept his mouth shut, his hands in his pockets and his expression as close to normal as he could manage. He had no intention of letting Lisa McDermid know what a clown he had been, Lisa wrapped up in her parka, with the furry hood that she had pulled over her head. No, he stood, impassively, watching as the fire and rescue team worked away, cutting away the roof of the Jaguar, which had been righted and sat on all four wheels, on the uneven rocky ground. They had been at it for three hours, and still the late Ken Green was jammed in his death trap as tightly as before.

Beside him McDermid sighed, her exhaled breath showing clearly as a cloud in the harsh silver light. ‘Why are we taking such care with this guy?’ she asked.

‘Because the big guy McGuire, our headquarters boss, told us to. That’s reason enough for me.’

‘Is he involved in something?’

Regan looked at her. ‘Ken Green’s sort,’ he replied, ‘are always involved in something or other, but I don’t know of anything specific.’

‘But this is an accident. I mean look at it; it’s absolutely clear what happened.’

‘Sure it is. But the head of CID hasn’t seen it, so he doesn’t know that. He’s also a detective, like you’re supposed to be, and so his job, and ours, isn’t just to determine what happened, it’s to determine what made it happen.’

‘Fine,’ she retorted. ‘Well, this is Detective Sergeant McDermid telling him that what happened was that Green was going too fast in bad light and bad road conditions and instead of zigging, he zagged; instead of taking this corner he went straight on. You came damn close to doing the same thing yourself.’

‘Fine,’ said the DI, ‘but don’t tell him until you can prove it, not that one.’ Finally a small shiver escaped him.

‘George,’ McDermid exclaimed, ‘you’re freezing.’

‘I’m fine,’ he insisted.

‘Like hell you are. You’ll catch your death.’

He laughed. ‘If I do you’ll be able to prove to McGuire exactly how it happened. I won’t though. I’ve been out on many a worse night than this.’

‘Maybe, but there’s no need for both of us to be here. You could go and I could get a lift back to Haddington with one of the emergency vehicles; they have to go that way. Go on, get yourself home.’

‘It’s a fucking sight colder there,’ he muttered, under his breath but not as far under as he had thought.

She looked at him. ‘Problems?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Jen’s not good; she’s withdrawing from life, while I’m trying to go in the opposite direction.’

Silence grew between them, until Lisa broke it. ‘Earlier on,’ she began, ‘just before we got this call, you were going to ask me out, weren’t you?’

‘Not exactly. For a drink, maybe. .’

‘And then a Chinese, maybe, and then see how it went. . I know how these things play out.’

‘And?’

She checked her watch. ‘With a bit of luck the Chinky in Haddington will still be open when we’re done here. But that would be it. I’m not a social worker, George, I’m not a bereavement counsellor. I’m a work colleague, plus I’m a woman, which puts me on Jen’s side. Anyway, you wouldn’t want me to shag you because I felt sorry for you, would you?’

‘Right now, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’

‘That’s your dick thinking. Let me tell you something about me. Two years ago, my mother died of pancreatic cancer. She was a fine, big, fit woman, then she was diagnosed and she was dead in six months. My father was devastated, and he still is. He’s been through all sorts of phases; my brother and I have seen them all. First, immediately after Mum died and he was left alone, we had him drinking too much, until he realised that wouldn’t help. Then we had him spending all the hours God sent on the golf course, even though he’s no fucking use at the game and can’t stand it really. After that we had internet dating; that led him to meet a succession of randy middle-aged women, some of them married. . I checked them out if I could. . all of them with an eye for the main chance. Each of those encounters left him feeling a wee bit emptier, a wee bit lonelier and, as well, guilty; for he couldn’t shake the idea that he was betraying Mum.’

Regan shivered again, more fiercely than before. ‘What are you saying to me, Lisa?’ he whispered.

‘I’m saying that there is no cure for him. He tells me that he dreams about Mum, and that in those dreams she isn’t dead, she’s just away for a wee while. That’s good, George, in a way, but for the eighteen hours or so that he’s awake, she is dead, and there’s no escape from that. It’s how his life is and even though it’s unbearably sad for him, it’s how the rest of it will be. We can’t help him, my brother and me. He has to live it. It’s the same with you and Jen; that’s how it is, that’s the hand you’ve been dealt. You have to get on and play it. You say she’s withdrawing. I look at you and I see you going in the opposite direction, dressing like a wannabe fashion plate, thinking about getting across me, or any other woman in your immediate vicinity.’

‘Hey,’ he joked, weakly, ‘I really like my Crombie.’

‘It’s a disguise, George, that’s all. You’re still the same wounded man underneath.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘I told you I’m no counsellor,’ she pointed out, ‘but from what I’ve learned from watching my father, it seems to me that you simply have to face up to it and bear the unbearable pain.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

‘My dad? He paints. He does landscapes, beach scenes, and even the odd still life. He’s not bad; he sells them through a gallery. He does portraits too, but they’re not for sale. They’re always of my mum.’ She reached out and touched his cheek, feeling its cold.

‘Neither Jen nor I could paint the kitchen door,’ he said.

‘No, but I’m sure you’ll find something if you look for it. You’re better off than Dad. You’ve still got each other. . unless you drift too far apart. Go on, man; I really can handle this scene on my own. Get yourself home.’

Regan looked at her. ‘Are you sure you’re not a social worker?’ he asked, then turned up the collar of his silk blend jacket and headed up the path that led towards his car.