Owning Jacob - SA

Chapter sixteen

The solicitor took her time going through the photographs.

Her eyebrows dipped into a frown when she saw the ones showing Kale lifting the engine above Jacob’s head, rose for those of Sandra Kale and the man in the bedroom. She gave Ben a quick glance before moving on.

He waited silently until she had finished, resisting the urge to try to make himself more comfortable. The chair was well-upholstered, but even after a week his lower back was still painful. The swelling around his nose and mouth had mostly gone, and he hadn’t lost any teeth, but the flesh under his eyes remained discoloured. His calf itched unbearably as the chunk the dog had taken out of it slowly mended.

Usherwood came to the end of the photographs. She lay them on the desk in front of her, absently straightening the edges.

“Well...” She drew a deep breath, cleared her throat. “I can see why you’re concerned.”

He waited for her to say something else. She looked down at the photographs again, chewing one corner of her mouth in thought. “How long have you been watching the house?” she asked without looking at him.

Ben felt himself colouring. “Quite a while.” He didn’t let himself elaborate or make excuses.

She gave a small smile. “Perhaps it’s as well there aren’t stricter privacy laws.”

“I wouldn’t have cared if there were.” It came out more emphatically than he intended.

The solicitor looked again at the photograph on top of the pile, as though it could tell her something it hadn’t already. Her fingers lightly touched the images of torn metal, as though they still possessed the power to cut her. “So what exactly are you asking me?”

“I want to know how to get Jacob back.”

She pushed the photographs to one side with a sigh. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. Courts are very loath to take a child away from his or her parents — or parent in this case. And in Jacob’s case it’s compounded because he’s already had the trauma of being moved from one home environment. It’s extremely unlikely that anyone would want to submit him to another upheaval unless it was felt there was absolutely no other alternative.”

“What alternative is there? Leaving him in a dump full of scrap metal, with a stepmother who whores around and a father who’s a f—” He stopped himself. “—a maniac?”

“I’m not saying nothing would be done, but taking a child from its parents is seen as a last resort. It would have to be felt that there was a real risk to Jacob in remaining where he is.”

“Kale dangles half-a-hundredweight of metal over his head. Isn’t that risk enough?”

“But you admit yourself that he hasn’t been physically harmed. I’m only pointing out what the situation is, Mr Murray.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He made an effort to calm down. “What will they do?”

Usherwood sat back. “Once you’ve voiced your concerns to the local authority they’ll hold a case conference to decide what, if anything, needs to be done. If it was thought there was enough of a risk of harm to Jacob — either physical or emotional — they might put him on the Child Protection Register. If the risk is considered significant, then an application for a care order can be made through the courts, and the child placed with a foster family. But that’s only in very extreme cases. Which this isn’t.”

“So there’s no chance of them letting me have him,” he said, flatly.

A rare look of sympathy crossed her face. “I’m sorry. You could make a residence application anyway. But for Jacob to be permanently taken from his father it would have to be felt that the situation was so bad there was absolutely no way he could ever safely live with him. And, to be blunt, that isn’t likely to happen.”

“What about the photos? Don’t they count for anything?” She picked them up again, but she was shaking her head as she fanned them out. “The fact that his wife’s having an affair — or affairs,” she added, with a quirk of her mouth, “isn’t going to be seen as significant one way or another, whether she’s accepting payment for it or not. Even prostitutes are allowed to have children. As for Kale himself...” She leafed through the photographs until she found one of him holding the block of metal above Jacob. The polarising filter had thrown out the exposure, but Ben had been happy to come out with anything at all. “Yes, these show he’s put his son at risk on one occasion. There’s no proof that he’ll continue to do so.” She held her hand up to forestall Ben’s protest. “He has a garden full of scrap metal — he’ll be told to get rid of it. He’s been reckless when he’s weight-training — he’ll be told to be more careful in future. The most serious charge against him is that he’s been deliberately keeping Jacob away from school, but provided he starts toeing the line there, then even that won’t weigh too heavily against him. I know you say he’s unbalanced and dangerous, but there’s nothing at present to actually prove it. Or to justify insisting he have a psychological assessment.”

Ben tasted a bitterness in his throat. “How about beating me to a pulp and blowing his dog’s brains out?”

“Didn’t you say you tried to hit him first? And in front of witnesses?”

He looked down at his hands. “What about the dog?”

“I’m afraid if the police aren’t going to take action there’s nothing we can do.”

Ben tiredly rubbed his face, accepting the truth of what she said.

After he had retrieved his equipment from the woods he had driven — slowly — to the local police station in Tunford.

The desk sergeant had perked up when he’d limped in, battered and bloodstained, but that had changed when he’d realised who he was talking to. Ben wondered if there was anyone in the town who didn’t regard him as lower than something they’d scrape off the bottom of their shoe.

“What exactly were you doing in the woods behind the house, sir?” the sergeant had asked.

“Walking,” Ben had told him, and held his stare while the policeman waited in silence for him to elaborate. He had tried to hold his anger in check as the questions became almost taunting in their bias.

“Sounds to me like he was defending himself, sir,” the policeman commented at one stage, with insulting courtesy. “If I were you I’d think myself lucky to have got off so lightly.”

Ben knew then he was wasting his time, but he still tried. “He shot his dog, for Christ’s sake!”

“Perhaps he was just being public-spirited, sir. If it had attacked you, like you claim, it’d have to be destroyed anyway.”

“So it’s okay for him to go around firing off a shotgun when he’s got a child in the house?”

“Provided he’s got a certificate for it, and I expect he has. He’s a responsible man, sir. Not like some. He knows how to handle firearms.” The sergeant gave a supercilious smile. “Besides, you get a lot of vermin in those woods.”

Ben had given up. He hurt all over, and reaction had left him weak and exhausted. He needed to have the bite dressed and his smashed nose looked at. More than anything, he needed to get away from that town.

“Drive carefully, sir,” the sergeant had said as he left. “You look a bit worse for wear. You don’t want to get arrested.”

Usherwood was looking at Ben with concern. “I know none of this is what you want to hear, but I can only tell you what would probably happen. There are very definite rules laid down in situations like this.”

Ben managed a smile. “I didn’t think there were any other situations like this.”

The solicitor looked down at the photographs. “Can I keep these?”

He nodded. He’d printed several sets of the best ones. All the others, including those of Sandra Kale, naked and clothed, he’d burned.

“I’m not saying the local authority will ignore the evidence. If nothing else it should make them apply pressure to ensure Kale allows you your contact to Jacob,” Usherwood said, with the air of offering an unconvincing consolation prize.

“And what happens if he still refuses?” When. “Will they take Jacob off him then?”

“No, but you’ve a legal entitlement. He’s got to let you see him eventually.”

Ben gently kneaded the bridge of his nose. It was still tender. “You’ve met him. Did he strike you as the sort of man who’s got to do anything?” He stood up while she was still considering that. “I’ll be in touch.”

There were too many hours in the day now that he wasn’t travelling up to the woods behind Kale’s house. He didn’t know what to do with the free time, and so he filled it by working.

Zoe was clearly relieved that he was reliable again, seeing it as a sign that things were returning to normal. But Ben couldn’t even remember what ‘normal’ was any more. It was something that had stopped, perhaps for good, when Sarah had died. If anything, he felt more out of synch with himself than ever. He seemed to be functioning on a purely surface level, going through the motions of talking, eating, going out, but without any of it making any impression on him. He couldn’t even say he felt depressed, because he wasn’t really feeling anything. It was as though he were using only a single room of a large house. Sometimes he was aware of the rest of the rooms waiting for him to retenant them, but he felt no urge to leave his emotional bedsit. That would involve asking himself what his next step was going to be.

And facing up to the fact that there wasn’t one.

He had come to the end, without accomplishing a thing.

Kale wasn’t going to change. He might appear to if he was forced, but only until he was left alone again, and then Ben would be in the same position as he was now. The closest he would be able to get to Jacob would be through a telephoto lens. He’d already been down that route.

Two weeks after he had visited Ann Usherwood he was no nearer a decision. He hadn’t been in touch with her again. There was no point.

He was still only going through the motions of his life when the phone call came through to the studio.

Zoe answered it, then cupped her hand over the receiver. “Guy for you. Won’t say who he is, but says it’s important.”

Ben was on a pair of stepladders, replacing a light. “Tell him I’m busy.” He heard her repeat it.

The model finished checking herself in the mirror. “Do you think this top needs pinning at the back?” she asked, pulling it between her shoulder blades so it was tighter across her breasts.

He didn’t really care but tried to apply himself to the question.

“He says to tell you his name’s Quilley,” Zoe said from behind him.

Ben’s mind emptied.

“Come on, Ben, do you want to talk to him or not?”

He climbed down from the stepladders. When she held out the phone for him he realised he still had the lightbulb in his hand. For a moment he couldn’t think what to do with it. He put it on the window ledge and took the receiver.

“So am I pinning this, or what?” asked the model.

He motioned vaguely for Zoe to sort it out. She gave him an odd look before she moved away.

He put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr Murray. Long time no see, as they say.”

Anger seared through him without warning. Its strength was debilitating, like a fever. “What do you want?”

“Just a chat, that’s all. Are you still there, Mr Murray?”

There were so many insults and accusations clamouring to be shrieked they closed his throat. If the detective had been in the same room as him Ben would have gone for him. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.” His voice was thick.

“You’re still a little worked up, I can tell. You shouldn’t have taken what happened personally. It was a simple business matter, that’s all. Like I told you, I’m in the information business. If one person doesn’t want to buy, then you take your wares somewhere else.”

“I don’t give a fuck. You’re scum. You’re a piece of shit.” He was dimly aware of Zoe and the model staring over at him. He turned his back.

“You’re entitled to your opinion, of course,” Quilley said. “But before you get too carried away I’ll come to the point. While we’re on the subject of information, I’ve come by some that I think will interest you. In fact, it’s fair to say that I know it will.”

Curiosity won over the desire to slam down the receiver.

“About Jacob?”

“Indirectly, I suppose. Or perhaps directly, depending on how you look at it. Let’s say it has a bearing on the current situation.”

“What is it?”

He heard Quilley chuckle. “Ah, now that’s the question, isn’t it? And of course the next one is how badly do you want to find out?”

“Why should I believe you know anything?”

“I’d have thought you of all people wouldn’t need to ask that, Mr Murray. You should know from personal experience that I’m rather good at digging around. Particularly when I think there’s something there to be dug up, as it were.”

“So why have you waited all this time?”

“Let’s say I found myself in something of a quiet patch, professionally speaking, so I decided to tidy up some loose ends.”

“You mean your work’s dried up.” Ben couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Stopped getting recommendations, have you?”

“I wouldn’t worry yourself about that, Mr Murray. The fact is that I’ve got something to sell. What we need to establish now is whether you want to buy.”

“I don’t know until I’ve got some idea what it is.”

“If I told you I’d be putting myself at a disadvantage, wouldn’t I? I’m afraid you’ll just have to take it on faith.” The detective’s regret was cheerfully insincere.

Ben chewed his lip. “How much do you want?”

“Well, now, that’s open to negotiation, isn’t it?”

“I’ve not said I’m interested yet. I know what Kale’s been doing, if that’s all you’re offering.”

There was a momentary pause, then another chuckle. “Who said it was anything to do with him? But I tell you what,” Quilley went on as Ben was absorbing this, “you have a think about it for a day or two. Ask yourself how much your stepson is worth to you. And then when you’ve decided give me a ring.” The detective let this sink in. “A word of advice, though,” he added. “I wouldn’t leave it too long. Nice talking to you, Mr Murray.”

He met Colin in a pub that evening. It was crammed with after-work city drinkers. There were no seats left but he found a corner to stand in by the cigarette machine and the bar. He ordered a pint while he waited.

Colin was late. When he pushed through the pub doors his hair and overcoat shoulders were dappled with melting snow. “First fall of the year and it isn’t even Christmas yet,” he complained, brushing it off.

Ben didn’t say anything. The prospect of a Christmas without either Sarah or Jacob made him feel as if he had stepped out into a black void. It had been something else he had avoided thinking about. It seemed to be a day for having things thrust on him.

“I can’t stay long,” Colin said, shucking off his overcoat. “I’m, uh, meeting somebody in an hour.”

“You mean Jo?”

“Er, yeah. Do you want a drink?”

“I’m okay. I’ll get you one.”

Ben turned to the bar, giving Colin a chance to get over his discomfort. The affair showed no signs of dying out, but he still seemed to find it embarrassing to talk about it.

“So what did Quilley actually say?” Colin asked, taking the lemon from the tonic he’d requested and nibbling at it. He’d told Ben it was an appetite suppressant. If nothing else infidelity had made him cut down on drinking and lose weight. The cigar habit had been quickly snuffed as well. Ben wondered if Maggie was as unsuspicious of the sudden change as Colin appeared to believe.

He outlined the conversation with the detective.

Colin sipped his tonic as he listened attentively, every inch the solicitor. “Well, you’ve got two choices,” he said when Ben had finished. “You either tell him to fuck off, or pay up and hope he really does know something useful. If you do that you’ve got to decide how much you’re prepared to fork out, and how to make sure Quilley doesn’t stiff you completely.”

“You think it might be worth taking a chance, then?”

“Can you just ignore it?”

Ben reluctantly shook his head.

“So there’s your answer. But make him give you some idea what it is he’s selling before you pay him, otherwise he might just take the money and tell you that Kale has All-Bran for breakfast. If he really does know something, and he’s as strapped for cash as he sounds, he’ll give you some sort of clue. If he won’t then he’s probably just trying to rip you off.”

“If he is I’ll fucking kill him.”

Colin dropped his lemon rind into an ashtray. “That’ll certainly help you get Jacob back, won’t it?”

The anger died as quickly as it had appeared. After the vacuum of the past two weeks the sudden onslaught of emotions was like eating over-rich food after a fast.

“There’s no guarantee that what he tells me’ll help anyway,” he said, despondent again.

“No, but there’s only one way you can find out.”

Ben stared into his beer but found no inspiration.

“If you decide to risk it you still shouldn’t let him think you’re too eager. He’ll only try to screw you for as much as he can if you do.”

“He warned me not to leave it too long.”

“He’s hardly going to tell you there’s no rush, is he? I’d make the bastard sweat for a day or two. Play it cool.” Colin looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’m, er, going to have to go.”

“Where are you meeting her?”

Colin tried to hide his awkwardness with activity, putting his glass on the cigarette machine, slipping on his overcoat. “Just some restaurant in Soho. Not Lebanese,” he added, wryly.

“What have you told Maggie?”

He regretted the question immediately.

Colin looked momentarily stricken. “She thinks I’m working late. What a cliché, eh?” He smiled wanly. “Let me know what happens.”

Ben said he would. He watched Colin walk out of the pub, the expensive coat still wet on the shoulders, the thinning hair now becoming an actual bald patch, and hoped he hadn’t spoiled his mood. Then he thought about Maggie, at home with the two boys, and felt sorry for her too. He hoped for Colin’s sake the girl was worth it. He began feeling sorry for her as well before he caught himself.

Fuck it, he thought, resisting the drift towards self-pity. Who am I to feel sorry for anyone?

He finished his beer. Then, because it was still snowing outside and he had nothing better to do, he bought himself another.

He followed Colin’s advice for a whole day before he gave in and phoned Quilley. The resurgence of hope had unsettled him, and when he heard the mechanical tones of an answerphone the anticlimax was killing. He waited ten minutes and tried again, with no more success. He continued trying throughout the afternoon, but each time was greeted by the secretary’s recorded voice telling him to leave his name and number. He hung up without speaking. When there was no answer by the early evening he accepted that he would have to wait until the next morning.

He got the answerphone then as well.

This time he left a message, brusquely telling Quilley to call. After that he felt better for a while, knowing he had committed himself. It was up to the detective now.

But Quilley didn’t get in touch.

Ben waited another day before he rang again. He phoned from home, and then from the studio, where he and Zoe were preparing for a shoot. He was so accustomed to hearing the recording that it took him by surprise when someone answered.

The secretary sounded even more truculent than he remembered. “He’s not here,” she snapped when he asked for the detective. She didn’t enlarge.

“When will he be back?”

“No idea.”

“Will it be later today or tomorrow?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know.”

He tried not to lose his temper. “Is there another number where I can get hold of him?”

There was a bitter laugh. “Not unless you want to ring the hospital.”

“He’s in hospital?”

Some of his paranoia receded at hearing there were no darker motives behind the detective’s absence.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He got beaten up.”

The paranoia returned. “Who did it?”

“How should I know?”

“When did it happen?”

“I don’t know, a couple of days ago,” she snapped. “Look, it’s no good asking me anything. I don’t work for him any more. He owes me two months’ wages, and I bet I’m really going to see that now he’s stuck in there. I’ve only come in to collect some things. I don’t even know why I bothered to pick up the phone.”

He sensed she was about to hang up. “Just tell me which hospital he’s in.”

She gave an irritable sigh, but told him before she broke the connection. Ben slowly set down the receiver. There were probably dozens of people who would like to give Quilley a kicking, he told himself. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

He could have been mugged, even.

But he didn’t believe that.

The shoot wasn’t scheduled for a couple of hours. He promised Zoe that he’d be back in plenty of time and drove to the hospital. It took him a while to locate Quilley’s ward.

He’d been prepared to make up some story so he’d be allowed to see him, but it was all-day visiting. No one stopped him as he walked in.

The detective’s bed was half screened by striped curtains.

He didn’t appear to notice Ben. He was lying flat on his back and wore a creased blue hospital gown. A drip fed into his arm from the chrome stand beside him. His face was so blackened with bruising it looked as though he’d been burnt. A dressing was taped across his nose, and another covered one ear. The hair around it had been shaved. An old man’s silver stubble frosted his hollowed cheeks and the loose wattles of his throat.

He was staring at the ceiling. He glanced briefly at Ben when he reached the bedside, then away again. He showed neither recognition nor interest.

“Your secretary told me where you were,” Ben said.

Quilley didn’t respond.

“It’s Ben Murray,” Ben added, not sure how aware the man was.

“I know who you are.” The voice was a weak croak.

Quilley’s gaze remained fixed above him. Some of his front teeth were missing, Ben noticed. He sat on the armrest of the vinyl chair.

“Have you told the police?” There was no response. “You told him you’d found something out, didn’t you? What did you do, say you’d tell me if he didn’t pay you? Then what? Were you going to go with whoever offered the most, or take money from both of us? Except Kale beat the shit out of you instead.”

Quilley didn’t look at him, but his chin was quivering.

Ben leaned nearer. A smell of antiseptic and unwashed body came from the bed.

“What did you find out?”

The detective stared resolutely at the ceiling. The tremor in his mouth grew more pronounced. His Adam’s apple looked as though it would break through the skin as he swallowed.

“I’ll pay you,” Ben said.

Quilley closed his eyes. A tear ran out from the corner of one and ran sideways towards his ear.

“Please. It’s important. Was it something about Kale?”

It seemed that Quilley was going to ignore this also. Then he moved his head fractionally from side to side.

“What, then? His wife? I know she has men round while Kale’s at work. Is that it? Or is it something else?”

There was no further movement Ben took a deep breath, trying to control his frustration.

“Why won’t you tell me? Because you’re frightened of him?”

The detective turned his head away.

Ben stood up. He’d thought he’d feel some satisfaction in seeing the man broken. He didn’t, but he didn’t feel any pity either. He walked away from the bed without another word. On the way out he stopped at the nurses’ station. A plump young nurse was writing behind it. She looked up as Ben approached.

“I’m a friend of Mr Quilley’s. Does anyone know what happened to him?”

It took her a moment to place who he was talking about. “Oh, the man who was beaten up? No, I don’t think so. He says he can’t remember. We think it must have been more than one person, though, from the extent of his injuries. There’s a lot of internal bruising. He’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”

Ben thought he was very lucky.

He felt the pull of Tunford even after he had driven past the turnoff that led to it. For several miles afterwards he was conscious of where it lay behind him, as though part of his brain were looking backwards, watching it recede.

The snow had lingered here, piles of dirty white melting slowly by the roadside, staining the bare trees and dead grass like mould. Ben had turned the car heater up high, but the frigid damp still seemed to cling to his clothes.

Or perhaps it was him it was clinging to.

The industrial estate had an abandoned Sunday air about it. The town itself looked similarly deserted. One or two windows of the terraced houses were decorated with tinsel and coloured baubles, but they seemed unconvincing in the grey daylight.

When he reached the street where the Patersons lived he saw that more of the boarded-up houses had gone. The strip of semi-levelled rubble now extended halfway along the row of terraces. The JCBs and earth-shifting machinery stood patiently amongst the bricks, waiting to be loosed on the rest.

Ben parked outside the house and knocked on the door.

The window box held only soil. The glass above it was misted over. He stamped his feet, feeling the dank atmosphere penetrate his lungs.

The door was opened. Ron Paterson nodded a greeting and stood back to let him in.

The kitchen smelled of roasting meat. A coal fire burned in the small grate set into the tiled fireplace. Ben felt the warmth close around him, snuffing the chill in an instant.

Paterson closed the door. “Give me your coat.”

Ben took it off and handed it to him. He went out to hang it at the bottom of the stairs.

“You sure you don’t mind me coming?” Ben asked when he came back.

“I’d have said if I did.” He nodded at the table. “You might as well sit down.”

Ben had phoned the day before to ask if he could call around. Paterson had told him to come before lunch — he’d called it ‘dinner’ —the next day. He hadn’t asked why. It didn’t need to be said that it would be something to do with Jacob.

“How’s Mary?”

Paterson was filling the kettle. “In hospital.”

“Is she all right?” Ben had thought she must be upstairs.

“They’re doing tests.” He said it matter-of-factly, keeping whatever he felt out of sight. He plugged in the kettle. “Want a cuppa?” He set out the teapot and mugs, then came and sat at the table. “So what can I do for you?”

“You said something last time I was here. About Sandra Kale.”

“I said a lot of things.”

“But you started to say that you’d heard something about her, and then you stopped. I wondered what it was you’d heard.”

Ben had remembered the conversation after he’d visited Quilley. He knew he might have made the journey just to hear a piece of useless gossip. But it wasn’t as if his Sundays were so fun-filled any more that he couldn’t spare the time.

Paterson sucked on a tooth. He didn’t look at Ben, but he didn’t give the impression of looking away from him either.

“Just rumours.”

“What rumours?”

“I don’t spread gossip.”

“It might be important.”

Paterson considered that. “Why?”

Ben told him.

Jacob’s grandfather listened without making any comment.

Once he got up to unplug the kettle, although he didn’t bother making any tea. Other than that he didn’t move as Ben described Kale’s activities in the garden, and Sandra’s in the bedroom. Ben told him how Jacob was being kept off school, and what had happened when the two men had found him in the woods. He left nothing out, except the fact that he’d almost allowed himself to be sidetracked by Sandra Kale’s ruttish sexuality.

He wanted to emphasise how Kale was unbalanced, not only unfit to bring up Jacob but an actual danger to him. But he saw the grimness in Paterson’s face and knew there was no need.

There was a silence when he had finished. The coals of the fire tumbled in on themselves in a swarm of sparks. The gas oven hissed softly. Paterson went over and turned it down.

“We don’t keep drink in the house,” he said, fetching Ben’s coat.

He took Ben to the working men’s club. It was non-political, an old and ugly brick building with an even uglier 1960s extension tacked on to its front. An elderly fat man in a three-piece brown suit sat behind a table in the entrance. He greeted Paterson with a wheezed ‘Afternoon, Ron’ as he pushed across a book for him to sign. Ben wrote his own name in the ‘guest’ column and followed him inside.

It was a big room with a high stage at one end. Brightly coloured paper streamers ran from the edge of the ceiling to its centre, and already deflated balloons hung limply on the walls. The stage itself was fringed with gold plastic tassels that could have been a part of the Christmas decorations except for a tired look of permanence about them. Round, dark wood tables and matching stools filled the floor space with no clear aisles in between. A few were occupied, mainly by men, but most were empty.

Ben tried to buy the drinks but Paterson would have none of it. “You’re my guest,” he said, in a tone that spoke of protocols and tradition.

They carried their pints to a table by the window. Paterson exchanged nods with one or two of the other customers but didn’t stop to talk. They sat down, taking the top off their beer in the ritual that had to precede any conversation. The beer was cold and gassy. Ben stifled a belch as they set down their glasses.

The lull wasn’t so much awkwardness as not knowing where to start.

“Gets busy in here at nights. Specially weekends.” Paterson lifted his chin towards the stage. “Get some good acts on, as well.”

“Right.”

“Used to come in here a lot, Mary and me. Before we moved to London, and then for a bit when we first moved back. Till Mary got really bad. It’s difficult now, though.” He looked around the room as if noticing it for the first time.

They took another drink.

“I can’t vouch for anything,” Paterson said, abruptly coming to the point. “It’s only what people have said. Nothing specific.”

Ben nodded.

Paterson studied his pint. “She’s supposed to have a bit of a history, that’s all...”

“History?”

“Been a bit of a bad ‘un. Taking money for it.” He looked across at Ben to make sure he understood.

“You mean she was a prostitute?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. One of the club members’ sons had a mate who was based at Aldershot with Kale. Reckoned she’d sold it to half the regiment before she married him.” He pursed his lips disapprovingly. “Sounds like she’s still at it, from what you’ve said.”

Ben felt let down. Even if it were true, it wasn’t the revelation he’d hoped for. “Was there anything else?”

He could see Paterson struggling with some decision.

“There were stories about some trouble she’d been in,” he said at last. “Other trouble. But I couldn’t tell you what. I don’t listen to that sort of thing.”

“Do you know anybody who might know?”

The other man considered, then shook his head.

“How about the member’s son you were talking about?”

“The family moved away last year. Couldn’t tell you where they are now.” He must have read the frustration in Ben’s face. “You thought I could tell you something to help get him back.”

It wasn’t a question. Ben hadn’t mentioned anything about why he wanted to know, only that he was worried about Jacob.

“I’ve been told there’s no chance.”

Paterson took a pull from the pint. “John Kale’s not going to let him go. It won’t matter what anybody tells him.”

Ben didn’t answer.

“He was always possessive. Didn’t like our Jeanette going out or doing anything without asking him. He was bad enough that way then. Now he’s got his son back he won’t let nobody take him again.” He tapped his finger on the table for emphasis. “I mean nobody. And I wouldn’t like to say what’ll happen if anyone tries.”

“You think I should just give him up?”

A weariness seemed to come over the older man, then it was gone. “I don’t like to think of my grandson in that house any more than you do. But John’s not going to deliberately hurt him. He’s all he’s got. Forget her, that tart...” He made a dismissive brushing-away gesture. “She’s just a bit of nothing. It’s the boy he’d lay down his life for. If he thinks he’s going to be taken away again, it’ll be like losing everything twice. I don’t think he’ll care what he does then.”

“I’ll be careful,” Ben said.

Paterson reached for his glass. “It’s not you I’m thinking about.”

They had another drink at the club — which Ben bought, so obviously the protocol of guests not buying applied only to the first round — and then went back to the house. Paterson invited him to stay for lunch. “I’ve done enough for two,” he said. “Force of habit.”

Afterwards they watched the football match on the small TV in the lounge. Ben felt drowsy and comfortable. The beer, the roast lunch and the coal fire popping in the grate combined to make him feel more relaxed than he had in ages. Whole swathes of the afternoon passed without them talking, but there was no awkwardness in the silences. When Paterson announced that he would have to get ready to visit his wife, Ben offered to go with him to the hospital. The decline came without fuss or self-consciousness.

“She’s not at her best just now. You can call round again when she’s back at home.”

Ben understood, without feeling offended, that it was time for him to go. Paterson saw him to the door, but they didn’t shake hands. It wouldn’t have felt right.

“Don’t push him too far,” the older man told him as he left.

Ben almost said okay. But he didn’t.