The Dead Tracks

Chapter Twenty-two

When I got back to the house, I checked for answer phone messages and then switched on the TV. A reporter was standing near the Royal Docks, the Thames framed behind her. At the bottom of the screen, a ticker tape was running right to left: MET POLICE: WOMAN FOUND IN THAMES RETURNED TO FAMILY. FAMILY HAVE REQUESTED NO NAMES/DETAILS BE RELEASED TO PUBLIC. I remembered the same reporter covering the same story a couple of days before while I was in the cafe close to Newcross Secondary. I didn't know much about it, but I did know that, if it had any legs, it wouldn't have been tucked away right at the end of the hourly bulletin.

After showering, I went through my wardrobe. Laid a shirt out. Trousers. A pair of shoes I hadn't worn since the funeral. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my reflection in the mirror. That same flicker ignited in my stomach, and I felt all the doubt and the guilt and the fear move through my chest.

It's too soon, I thought.

And then I realized, until I did it, it would always be too soon.

Ten minutes later, Liz answered her door. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a black halterneck dress that followed the shape of her body all the way down to the middle of her calves. Her hair was curled at the ends, falling against her shoulders in ringlets. She had a little make-up on, but not much, and her eyes were dark and playful, looking me up and down.

'Wow,' I said.

'Thank you.' She fluttered her eyelids jokingly and reached for a long black coat laid over the back of one of the sofas. 'You look very dashing too.'

I looked down at myself. I had a black button-up shirt on, a smart pair of denims and a long, black, very expensive Armani jacket I'd bought at a shiny supermall in Dubai when I'd had to spend a week out there with the paper. It had looked great on the hanger, even better on, but decidedly less good coming out of my bank account. Since then, I'd worn it three times, terrified I'd irreparably damage it by subjecting it to fresh air.

'I feel underdressed,' I said, looking at her.

'Oh, rubbish,' she replied, slipping on her coat. You look great.'

I handed her a brown paper bag.

She took it and looked inside. Her face widened in delight. 'Kona coffee?' she asked. 'Now it's my turn to say "wow".'

'It's just coffee.'

'It's Kona coffee, David.'

'Now you'll be forced to think of me as you drink it.'

She smiled. 'That won't be a hardship.'

The restaurant was three miles away, right on the edge of Gunnersbury Park. On the way over, we talked about our days. When it was my turn, I left out the bit about ending up at a crime scene and spending three hours at a police station. Liz looked at me a couple of times, as if she knew I'd not told her everything, but she didn't probe.

At the restaurant, the owner - her client — gave her a kiss and a hug, then found us a table near the back, with views out across the park. On the walls there were black- and-white pictures of old Italy: cobbled streets; shuttered windows looking out over small town squares; stony- faced men and women outside cafes, their skin etched with age, their colour darkened by the Mediterranean sun. I ordered a bottle of white wine and some water, and then — once the waiter had gone — I turned to find her looking at me.

'You okay?'

'I'm fine,' she said. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah, I'm good.'

There was a slight hesitation between us. This was a very different road from the ones we'd walked before. She could see the apprehension in me, and I could see it reflected. It was nearly two years since Derryn had died, and in that time it had been a meal, or a coffee, or some company at the end of a hard day. Now it was the beginning of something more.

I eased us back into conversation by asking about her daughter.

Liz had met her ex-husband straight out of university, and been married at twenty-two. A year later, Katie was born. She'd told me a bit about her background before.

Her husband had battled her for custody of their daughter, but came out second best. 'He could be a little… She looked up at me. Violent. I nodded that I understood. 'Never seriously. And he never, ever touched Katie — but any future I had seen for us rapidly went down the toilet when he started on the booze.'

'When did you decide to get out?'

'When Katie was two. I packed her off to my parents for the weekend, and sat him down and told him I was leaving. He took it badly, as you might expect. I think any man, even a drunk, feels wounded when you tell him he's not providing for his family.'

'Does she still see him?'

'He moved up north. She hasn't seen him for eight years.'

Our meals arrived a few minutes later. 'So what about you?' she asked, as we started eating.

'What do you want to know?'

'Did you ever think about starting a family?'

'We talked about it a lot, especially when we hit our thirties. I always imagined my work would put me off wanting to have kids - all the tragedy and the heartbreak I got to see — but it never did. We definitely always wanted them. In the end, though, Derryn found out she had cancer and… well, it became less important.' I smiled at her, letting her know everything was fine. She seemed to understand the gesture, but I could tell the conversation had led somewhere neither of us wanted it to go. I made an attempt to redirect it: 'My mum used to tell me she loved me more than anything in the world — but that I'd put her off having another baby for the rest of her life.'

Liz smiled. 'Really? So you've always been naughty then?'

'Apparently they could never find my heartbeat when she was pregnant.'

'So, what — you're a vampire?'

I laughed. 'Not a vampire. But definitely a pain in the arse.'

'When did your folks pass on?'

'Mum was just over five years ago. When I was young, my dad used to take me out shooting in the woods close to our farm. Dad had this whole thing about me being a marksman in the army. When I became a journalist and crushed his dream, I agreed to go shooting with him on Sunday mornings as often as I could get down to see them. One morning we got back to the house and mum was lying on the bench outside the house. She'd had a stroke. Dad died a couple of months later.'

'I'm sorry.'

I shrugged. 'It's weird. The only time it ever really registered with me that my parents were getting old was when they talked about their age. I never really noticed otherwise.'

'You must miss them.'

'Yeah, I do.'

'Do you ever get over that feeling?'

'You want the honest answer?'

She nodded.

'When you love someone, I'm not sure you do.'

I left Liz chatting to the owner while I walked to get the car. The rain had eased off, but there was still a chill in the air. The BMW was parked close to a cemetery and in view of the motorway, cars flashing past beneath a permanent orange glow.

'David.'

I turned around, my key in the door. On the other side of the road, just coming out of a pub, were Jill and Aron. They crossed the road towards me.

'Wow,' Jill said, smiling as they approached. 'Talk about coincidence!'

I shook hands with Aron. 'How are you guys?'

'We're good,' Aron replied.

Jill held up her mobile. 'I tried calling you earlier, but you weren't picking up. I figured you were busy with work.'

I fished in my pocket for my phone. It wasn't there. Then I remembered I'd left it on the bed at home.

'That's because, brilliantly, I've forgotten to bring it with me.'

Aron smiled. 'Forty - it happens to us all.'

Jill laughed. 'Oh well, never mind. I was just calling to see if you wanted to come out for a drink. Remember I mentioned it?'

'Oh, of course.'

I did remember. I hadn't purposefully forgotten, but I was glad to have gone out to dinner with Liz instead. Even from the limited conversations I'd had with them both, it was obvious their friendship was developing in a way both of them were enjoying. I didn't want to get between that.

'I'm really sorry,' I said, lying. 'That would have been great.'

'Next time maybe,' Jill said.

I glanced at Aron. He was smiling, and looked as if he wasn't worried whether I said yes or no. If it was for show, or to avoid making me uncomfortable, he was doing a good job.

'Next time,' I said.

'I wanted to thank you, actually, David,' Aron said.

'Really?'

'For going round to see Jill the other night.' He looked at her. She smiled at him. 'I was up in Manchester at a work function, and had my phone off all night.'

'It doesn’t matter,' she said.

'It Does matter,' he replied softly. He turned back to me. 'Anyway, I wanted to thank you for stepping in and helping out.'

I held up a hand. 'Really. It was nothing.'

'Well, it was very good of you.'

I nodded at him. 'Can I give you guys a lift somewhere?'

'Oh, no, don't worry,' Jill said.

'It's only about a quarter of a mile to my place,' Aron added, nodding across the cemetery to where a bank of newly built homes had gone up on the other side. 'You should come over one day. We can celebrate the onset of old age together.'

I smiled. 'I like to live in denial.'

'Then we can live in denial together.'

I shook his hand, but Jill seemed hesitant as I turned to her. I'd promised her I'd make a few calls, though had also said it would be after I cleared the Carver case. It had only been a day since I'd offered. But I could understand her impatience. She wanted to know what happened to Frank, and she didn't want to have to wait now she'd found someone willing to help. I'd left a message with an old contact of mine, who used to work in the National Criminal Intelligence Service before they became part of SOCA. But I hadn't chased it up.

'I haven't forgotten about Frank,' I said.

'Oh, thank you so much.'

I nodded to them both, said goodbye again and got into the BMW. As I headed back to the restaurant to pick up Liz, I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw them side by side, laughing at something, fading into the night.

Liz offered to make me a cup of Kona coffee from the packet I'd bought her so, after parking the car, I wandered around to hers. One of the sofas had folders and loose legal papers scattered across it. I sat down on the second one and could see books with names like The Dictionary of Law and Solicitor Advocate stacked up by the fireplace. She came back in, armed with two coffees, sat down next to me and glanced at the books.

'Fascinating, huh?'

I took one of the mugs. 'I think I'm too terrified to find out.'

'Fortunately I've got a photographic memory.' She winked. 'Actually, that's not true. But I do seem to be good at remembering lots and lots of really boring, really technical things.'

'So if I'm a vampire, Does that make you… a robot?'

She laughed — and then a momentary silence settled between us. 'Thanks for the meal tonight,' she said.

'Thank your friend.'

'No, I mean…' She paused, took a sip from her mug.

'I mean, thanks for asking me out. I know you didn't have to.'

'I didn't have to - but I wanted to.'

She nodded. 'I know how hard this must be.'

I looked at her. Her eyes were dark. She moved a hand to her face and tucked some hair behind one of her ears, and I felt a sudden, unexpected pull towards her.

'Are you okay?' she asked.

I put down my coffee. Liz followed my hand, then looked back up at me. I placed my fingers on hers and eased her mug from her grasp, putting it down next to mine.

Then, slowly, I leaned in and kissed her.

At first she backed away a little, her mouth still on mine, as if she didn't want me to feel like I had to. Then, as I moved a hand to the back of her head and pressed her in harder against me, she responded. We dropped back on to the sofa, me on top of her, feeling her contours and her shape beneath me. I breathed in her scent as we kissed, one of her legs moving between mine. She moaned a little, and a feeling raced through me, like every nerve ending in my body was firing up. When I looked at her, she was staring up at me, her eyes sparking.

And that was when I broke off.

Slowly, the look dissolved in her face.

'I'm so sorry, Liz.'

She reached for one of my arms and squeezed it. 'You don't have to be sorry,' she said gently, but I could see the disappointment in her eyes. Derryn flashed in my head, a series of images that were there and then gone again: the night I first met her, the day we married, the two of us on a beach in Florida, and then at the end of her life - wrapped in sweat-stained sheets - as she lay dying in our bed. I shifted closer to Liz and apologized again, but I'd razed the moment, and what remained between us was exactly what had always been there.

My doubts. My fears. My guilt.