The Thing Itself

FIFTY-SEVEN

Kate was on the phone with her father when Sara Gilchrist came out of her room. When she’d seen the Notting Hill number come up, she’d hesitated before she’d answered. Now she wished she’d hesitated longer.

‘Your mother has left me,’ he said without preamble.

‘Not before time,’ Kate said, before she could stop herself. ‘Where has she gone?’

‘No idea, but I’m sure she’ll be in touch with you in due course.’

‘She’s gone off with somebody else?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Have you?’

‘It’s nothing like that. Your mother had. . there’s this man — Charlie Laker-’

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’

Gilchrist wandered on to the balcony.

‘He’s dead. He died yesterday.’

Her father was effusive.

‘But that’s wonderful news,’ he said.

Kate looked at Sarah’s long back as she leaned over the balcony.

‘Not for Reg Williamson,’ Kate said quietly. ‘Or do you mean because Laker can’t dish the dirt on you?’

‘I must phone your mother and let her know,’ Simpson said and hung up.

Kate looked at her phone in surprise.

‘That was sudden,’ she said, as Gilchrist came back into the room.

‘What was?’ Gilchrist said, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge.

‘My father hung up virtually mid-conversation.’

‘That’s men for you,’ Gilchrist said, putting a bottle of white wine and two glasses on the coffee table.

Kate Simpson looked at her.

‘Sarah — I’m really sorry to hear about Reg Williamson.’

‘Me too,’ said Gilchrist, sitting on the edge of the chair on the other side of the table.

‘But you’ve been able to get a few things clarified?’

Gilchrist nodded as she poured two generous glasses of wine and passed one to Kate. Their hands touched for a moment.

‘Just a question now of whether I still have a job,’ Gilchrist said.

Kate shuddered.

‘And whether I go to jail.’

Gilchrist held her glass out to chink against Kate’s.

‘I’d bet money on a suspended sentence at worst.’

They took their first sips. Gilchrist took more of a healthy swig.

‘Finally figured out the identity of the Brighton Trunk Murderer. Bloke called Eric Knowles.’

Gilchrist shrugged.

‘Should I know him?’

‘No. But I think we should be able to find out more about him than we already know.’

Gilchrist nodded.

‘Job done, then.’

Kate smiled.

‘We still don’t know who the victim was.’

‘Of course,’ Gilchrist said, topping her glass up. She proffered the bottle to Kate. Kate shook her head.

‘I really want to find out who she is. I keep thinking: she liked music, she had a favourite food, she sighed over a favourite movie star. We know she liked the sun.’

Gilchrist nodded again.

‘She was another human being.’

‘Right,’ Kate said.

Gilchrist gave her a tight smile.

‘That’s your next project, then.’