The Detective's Daughter

41

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Paul Bramwell had spent the evening drinking Famous Grouse, a Christmas present from his brother, and – adept at adopting motives to disguise real ones – convinced himself he needed to clear his head. As soon as he’d left his flat he knew he really wanted to see Stella. He knew also that he had drunk too much to drive, although for a moment the smack of night air fooled him that he was sober. Still he hesitated: the side roads were not gritted, he could not afford to lose his ‘no claims’.

No claims. Paul mumbled this as he fell against a signpost. He was free, single and not so young. He waited for the pavement to stop tipping like the deck of a boat, then set off for Stella’s.

At Young’s Corner he stopped. Even if Stella was in her flat he had no way of getting in because she turned off her buzzer and she would not hear him shouting through her double glazing. Like Stella, the flat was hermetically sealed from the world; perversely this idea prompted a wash of affection for her. They had got this far, that must mean something. She had dumped him because her dad had died; it was a reaction and he should cut her some slack. It was his birthday in two weeks. He wanted to spend it with Stella, not with a stranger. Or worse, alone.

Stella would have gone to her father’s house. She would not neglect her business to deal with his stuff so she would go at night. Although Paul Bramwell had provided himself with an excuse not to walk all the way to Brentford, he was right about where Stella was.

At the sight of her van, Paul was joyful. By now he had assured himself that Stella loved him as much as he loved her. He slouched against her van and planned his speech. The whisky had enabled him to forgive her for the poet with the spider legs and even for the tosser with the flash car he’d seen waiting for her by the river. As he had assured the policewoman, he was a family friend and he was there for her.

An hour went by. Initially the alcohol and the walk from the top of Goldhawk Road had made him hot; soon he cooled down and his feet went numb. He would not ring her. He imagined her checking her mobile and there being no call. Her secretary had dropped a hint that girls needed the chance to miss their partners. She had been right; he had laid low and Stella had come to his flat.

Maybe, he thought, Stella did not know where he was. He could pretend he was at home, which would mean she might think it safe to come out. But he ought to check she was all right – he had been drunk for a week when his father died. Yes, Paul Bramwell told himself, he should definitely call her.

He would tell her what he knew about the Rokesmith murder. He regretted now that he had not come forward; he might have met Stella’s dad – that would have impressed her.

He called Stella. It rang and rang and just as he was giving up he got through.

‘Hello?’ he whispered. She wouldn’t be happy if he woke the neighbours. He clamped the phone to his ear and picked up rustling and shoving. She was in bed with that man.

‘Stella. It’s me, Paul. I’m… I’m at home. I’ve been here all evening. Where are you? I know where you are.’ The line went dead. He dialled again.

‘Leave your name and number and a short message.’

Stella did not promise to return calls, nor did she ever call back. Paul tightened his fist as a red mist of fury descended.

He was brought back to the present by his phone ringing.

‘I’ve been trying to get you. Why were you ignoring me? I knew you were there all the time.’ He forgot to talk quietly.

‘I’m at the pub, the one by the river.’

‘I can’t hear anyone.’

‘I’m on my own.’

‘It’s open just for you, is it?’

‘No, I mean, I’m outside. That’s why I didn’t hear you ring. I came to check my messages and saw you had called.’

‘Nice of you to call back. Is he with you?’

‘No. Why don’t you go home?’

‘I’m coming. We need to talk; I need to explain.’

‘I won’t be there.’

She rang off. Paul could wait for her to return to the van or go and meet her. He was too cold to stay still, he told himself, so, fortified by her voice, he slithered and skidded to the subway. The tunnel was a break, without snow he could walk faster. The tiled walls and stone floor seemed to be merging: he was still drunk and must not let Stella see.

Halfway along, he checked each way and then peed into one of the gutters at the sides. His pee steamed as it hit the tiles and he swayed slightly. Stella hated him pissing outside. But these were special circumstances: he could not risk her leaving while he went to the lavatory.

Tucking himself in, Paul forgot to do up his zip because now he was concerned she might have left the pub. He careered up the ramp.

Demons chased him, leaping and grasping at him: another man’s hands had been on her; another man had been inside her. Whenever Paul thought of Stella when she was not with him, he supposed her the life and soul of the party, lively and spontaneous, surrounded by men wanting her. His jealousy was a kind of insanity.

The pub was shut.

He put a hand on the wall of a house to steady himself, and then stumbled up the three flood defence steps. He teetered at the top before dropping unsteadily down to the river.

He should have thought to bring a torch. He had his mobile. He nearly fell over as his feet sloshed through water. There was water everywhere.

‘…nor any drop to drink,’ he murmured, faintly pleased with himself. That bastard was not the only one who knew poetry. Paul inched along the shore.

Stella was not there. But it was all right: she loved him, she would be looking for him; she’d probably crossed the Great West Road, wouldn’t like the tunnel at night. Before his eyes danced black shapes of cut-out paper and when he tried to brush them away they got reinforcements and stung his cheeks. He thrust out his fists.

‘Oh, it’s you!’

The black shapes joined up to equal nothing.