Where There's Smoke

CHAPTER 20

“He’s getting more circumspect.” Collins set his teacup back in the saucer with a slight rattle. The chair creaked under the big policeman as he leaned forward and placed it on the coffee table.

“I don’t see what’s circumspect about a bloodstained poster accusing me of having an abortion,” Kate said.

When she had answered the door to her flat that evening she had been surprised to find the Inspector standing outside. She’d spoken to him only that morning, when she’d told him about the second poster. Seeing him there had given her a start, but he’d quickly reassured her. No news, he said. Just an informal visit.

He settled back heavily in his seat, legs apart, meaty hands resting on his thighs. His brown suit looked even more rumpled than usual.

“It isn’t so much the poster, as what he’s doing with it.” Collins shifted on the chair, uncomfortably. “Sorry. Got a problem with my back,” he explained.

“Would you like a straight-backed chair?”

“Oh, no, I’ll be fine, thanks.” He stopped fidgeting. “No, the thing about this second one is that he doesn’t seem to be as keen to paste it everywhere for you to see. He took a lot of risks with the first poster, sticking it up in underground stations and busy streets. But how many of this new one have you seen so far?”

“There were one or two near King’s Cross on the way home.” She considered. “It was dark, though. I could have missed more this morning, because I was still looking out for the first one.”

“Even so, there aren’t as many. He isn’t going as berserk this time.” The Inspector gave a wry smile. “I’d like to claim credit for that and say it’s because of our patrols. Which I don’t doubt it partly is, but I think there’s another reason as well.” He leaned forward and reached for the cup and saucer again. They looked like a child’s tea-set in his hand. “The first poster was almost purely for your benefit. He was hitting out. Calling you … well, insulting you, using pornography, and putting them where he knew you’d see them. He was getting something out of his system. Now he’s calmed down a bit, and instead of risking himself putting them up willy-nilly, he’s latched on to the idea of sending them to your clients by post. Even the poster itself is less … well, less hysterical. More deliberate.”

Kate looked down at her tea. It had gone cold. “You make it sound as if he’s building up to something.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to say for sure what he’s doing. Ellis isn’t exactly a rational individual. He might be just doing whatever comes to mind.” He flexed his shoulder and winced, careful not to upset the cup and saucer. His voice was studiedly casual. “Still, I think it might be a good idea for you not to go anywhere on your own for a while. Either get a taxi or ask someone to walk with you. A man, preferably.”

“You think he might attack me?”

“I mean I don’t think you should take any chances.”

Kate folded her arms protectively over her stomach. The gas fire hissed into the silence. Wanting to change the subject, she asked, “Have any more of our clients been in touch so far?”

She had decided that the only chance of minimising the damage done by Ellis’s poster was to confront the problem directly. She had spent the rest of that morning drafting and faxing a letter to each of her clients, explaining that the posters were part of a campaign to discredit her, and asking that anyone receiving them should contact Collins. Then she had added a footnote. Kate Powell is also proud to announce the forthcoming birth of her first child. It gave her an odd thrill to see the words written down, and she had handed the letter to Clive before she could change her mind.

“That’s fighting fire with fire,” he grinned, then pulled a face. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

The Inspector took another drink of tea. “Quite a few. I think you were right to assume that he’s sent it to all of them.” It was no more than Kate had expected, but the bald statement still produced a hollow tightness in her chest, like brief asthma.

“So far it looks like he’s stuck fairly rigidly to the same routine,” Collins continued. “Same brown envelopes, cheap quality paper, but we haven’t traced where they were bought yet. Postmarked central London, with nothing inside except the new poster. That’s pretty well the same sort of job as the first, so there’s nothing new there, either.”

Kate forced a smile. “Well, we weren’t really expecting a return address, I suppose.”

“No,” he agreed. He made another attempt to ease himself into a more comfortable position. “How have your clients reacted to all this?”

“Two cancelled their accounts this afternoon.”

One was a small publishing company that specialised in children’s books. The other was a fine-art dealer, who used Kate to promote occasional exhibitions at his Covent Garden gallery. Neither were big accounts, or currently active, but the dealer’s was a prestigious one, and Kate had enjoyed the contact with the rarified art world. The publisher had been polite but firm when she had telephoned. The art dealer, a man called Ramsey whom Kate had always liked, refused to discuss it.

“No chance of getting them to change their minds?” Collins asked.

“No.”

The Inspector tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. “Ah, well. I suppose it could have been worse.”

He didn’t have to say what he was thinking. Ellis had only sent her clients the poster. He hadn’t set fire to anyone’s premises. So far.

Collins drained his teacup and set it down with finality on the coffee table.

“Would you like another?” Kate asked.

“No, thanks. I’d better be off. My wife’s expecting me.”

He made no attempt to leave. He nodded at Kate’s stomach. “How’s the, er …”

She glanced down at herself. “Oh, okay. Thanks. It doesn’t really feel like I’m pregnant yet. Apart from the morning sickness.”

“My wife was like that. Started early, and went right on until she was eight months. Not that that means anything,” he added.

Kate smiled. “How many kids have you got?”

“Just the one. A daughter, Elizabeth. She’s a doctor.” He said it with automatic pride.

“In London?”

“Manchester. Husband’s a surgeon there.”

“Any grandchildren?”

“Two grandsons. They’ll be six and four now.” His smile was fond and sad. “Don’t see much of them, but it’s difficult, I suppose. With both parents being so busy.” It had the sound of an old rationalisation, used to brush over a lingering pain.

“How about you?” Collins asked. “Have you any brothers or sisters?”

“No, there’s just me.”

“What about your mum and dad?”

“They’re both dead. But even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t go running to them for help now, if that’s why you were asking.”

He didn’t bother to deny it. “Didn’t you see eye to eye?”

Kate looked into the gas fire, trying to put the complex emotions into a simple sentence. She remembered a similar conversation with someone else, and the subject was suddenly uncomfortable. “Not really,” she said. “Anyway. Past history now.”

“But wouldn’t you like them to have seen their grandchild?”

There was an intense curiosity about him, almost a bewilderment. His daughter, Kate realised. He still doesn’t understand what went wrong. And all at once, as Collins sat there, she saw him as a father instead of a policeman, stranded on the wrong side of a generation, unable to fathom the hurts inflicted by his own blood. Was I like that? She had only ever considered the pain and injustices she’d received, not any she might have caused. The thought was disturbing, and she had enough to think about with the present. She pushed the doubts away from her, uncomfortably aware now that they would never completely go.

“All things considered, it’s perhaps as well they can’t,” Kate said, making light of it. “They’d share your views on how I got it.”

The Inspector looked down at his hands, smiling. “It’s probably an age thing.”

It was the closest they had come to acknowledging their differences. The concession made them awkward. Abruptly, Collins’s stomach gave a rumbling growl.

He looked startled. “Pardon,” he mumbled, patting it. Kate was amused to see him blush. “Well,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and standing up, “I’d better be going.”

Kate walked downstairs with him. He examined the freshly painted entrance. “Glad you got rid of the cat flap,” he commented, tapping the new door. He went out onto the path. “You remember what I said, now. Watch yourself.”

She was surprised to find she appreciated his concern. She wanted to tell him she’d enjoyed talking to him, but the words wouldn’t come. “Goodnight,” she said, and closed the door.

The young man was waiting on the other side of the road to the agency. Kate noticed him as she walked up the street, but after her first quick glance she paid him no further attention. Collins’s visit the night before had left her in an odd mood. She had gone to bed and, unusually, fallen asleep straight away. Even rarer, she had slept right through to her alarm clock going off. But she had woken with the dispersing memory of a dream, in which her father had stood outside the ruins of a house and accused her of burning it down with her baby inside. She had tried to tell him that she couldn’t have, because she was still pregnant, and she had looked down to see her naked and swollen stomach. Then, in the smouldering rubble of the house, she had seen a figure, and even though it was an adult she had known it was her baby. She had been happy, because that meant it had escaped the fire, but then she had seen it had Ellis’s features, only strangely unformed. And she had been frightened, because she knew he had started the fire, and also that it hadn’t happened yet. But when she tried to tell her father, she saw that he had become Collins. He stood in front of the smoking house and told her that things could be worse, they could always be worse, and then the alarm had gone off and woken her.

The dream had been disturbing, and rekindled unwelcome memories of bonfire night, when the man had thrown himself into the flames. Kate was still trying to shake off its pall when she became aware that the young man across the road was openly watching her.

She looked across at him again, expecting him to turn away. He didn’t. He was leaning against a street lamp with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up against the morning chill. As she approached he straightened, breath steaming from his mouth, not taking his eyes from her.

Kate looked away. All at once she was conscious of how empty the street was. She began walking a little faster, hoping Clive had already arrived, and pulling the keys from her bag in case he hadn’t. The young man started across the road. She reached the door. It was locked. She fumbled with the keys, trying to appear calm, and as she got the door open he came up behind her.

“Kate Powell?”

She turned, hand still on the door, poised to dart in and slam it. “Yes?”

He looked in his early twenties, with long, reddish hair and a thick leather jacket. His eyes were very pale, a non-colour.

He gave her a grin. “Glad you’ve turned up. I was starting to freeze over there. My name’s Stu dark. Been waiting to have a few words with you.”

“What about?”

He nodded towards the half-open door. “Be warmer talking inside.” His grin seemed a permanent fixture.

“Talking about what?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you. I think you’ll be interested.” His brashness grated.

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if I am or not,” she said, her arm still barring the doorway.

“It’ll sound better over a cup of coffee.”

“I’m not letting you in, so either tell me what you want or go away.”

There was something about the way he looked at her that made his grin seem mocking. “Have it your way, love. It’s about certain posters that have been popping up all over the place.”

Kate felt the shock run through her. She tried to brazen it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the ones with you on them.” His gaze flicked down her body. “Well, your face. I don’t think the rest is you. Not unless you’ve lost weight.” He held up his hands. “Only joking, love, no offence.”

She stared at him. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

“Journalist, if you don’t mind.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’m freelance. I work for whoever’s paying. But I’m telling you, there’ll be so much interest in a story like this that they’ll be queuing up for it.”

“There isn’t a story.”

“Oh, come on, Kate — can I call you Kate? A nasty poster campaign accusing a pretty young woman of all sorts of things? It’s a great human-interest story.” He cocked his head to one side. “Specially when I’ve heard it’s the nutter who murdered that psychologist who’s doing it.”

the look of triumph in his eyes told her she had made a mistake.

“So it is him, then?”

“I’m not saying anything.” She made to go inside, but he put his hand on the door, holding it.

“There’s no need to get upset. I’m on your side. All I want to do is give you the chance to tell your version.”

“Move your hand.”

“If it’s a good enough story, there might even be a fair bit of money involved.”

“Are you going to move?”

“Look, it’s going to get written, anyway. It’s in your own interests to co-operate.”

She pushed on the door, barging his arm out of the way. He stood in the doorway, preventing her from closing it.

“So why’s Timothy Ellis so pissed off with you, Kate? What’s your relationship with him?”

The grin hadn’t slipped from his face. Kate went to where the fire extinguisher was clipped to the wall.

“Did you get rid of his kid, is that it? Is that why he flipped and killed the shrink?”

Kate tugged the extinguisher free and turned with it. His grin dropped when he saw what she was holding.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” He stepped backwards onto the pavement as she advanced, pointing the nozzle, and almost bumped into Clive. Clive looked from him to the fire extinguisher in Kate’s hands.

“What’s going on?”

The journalist held up both his hands, edging away. “Nothing, just having a chat. It’s cool.” He reached the pavement edge. “Thanks for your help, Miss Powell.” Grinning, he walked across the road. Clive watched him go, then turned back to Kate. He nodded at the extinguisher.

“You’re getting pretty handy with that.”

“I’m getting plenty of practice.” She moved aside to let him in.

“So what was it all about?” he asked.

Kate dumped the fire extinguisher on a desk. “He’s a journalist. He’s managed to find out who the Kate Powell on the posters is.”

“Oh, shit. How much does he know?”

“I don’t know. He was digging, but he already knew who was putting up the posters. Shit! I could do without this.”

“Which paper was he from?”

“He wasn’t. He said he was a freelance.”

Clive took off his coat and began preparing the coffee. “That’s not so bad, then.”

She looked at him. “Why isn’t it?”

“Because freelances are ten a penny. He’s still got to sell the story, and you know how hard that is.”

Kate did, from the numerous press releases she’d had ignored by editors herself. But it was difficult to be objective when she was so intimately involved. It fogged her thinking.

The coffee filter gave a hiss as Clive poured water into it. “Don’t worry,” he told her, setting the jug to catch the drips. “It’ll probably never get into print.”

The story appeared two days later. Kate was sitting on the tube, on one of the long seats that face each other across the aisle. A man on the other side was reading a tabloid newspaper, folding its pages back on themselves, and she looked at it for a while without comprehending what she was seeing. Then, all at once, the words stopped being abstract shapes and formed into a sentence, and Kate felt the carriage spin round her. As though he had been waiting for that moment, the man turned the page, and immediately all she could retain of what she had seen was the single word, POSTER.

Suddenly, the train was full of rustling newspapers. It slowed to a halt, and Kate stood up and got off. She was halfway up the escalators before she realised that it wasn’t her stop.

She went back down to the platform and caught the next train. Outside the station at King’s Cross was a newspaper stand. Kate went to it and stared down at the assembled piles of newsprint.

“What can I do you for, darlin’?” the vendor asked.

Kate couldn’t remember what paper the man on the train had been reading. She knew it was a tabloid, but that was all. She shook her head and began to walk away, then abruptly went back and picked up a copy of every newspaper on the stand.

“You setting up in competition, or what?” the vendor grinned as she paid.

Kate didn’t answer. She was dimly aware of his muttered, “Yeah, and a nice fucking day to you too,” when she walked away, but her mind was already on the thick stack of paper under her arm.

Clive had already arrived at the office. His smile of greeting faded as he looked from her face to what she was carrying.

Kate went straight upstairs. The newspapers made a heavy thud as she dropped them onto her desk. Separating the tabloids first, she began to go through them. She found it in the Mirror. The article took up most of one page, topped by the headline she had seen on the train.

The story was billed as an exclusive. It referred to Ellis as a schizophrenic wanted in connection with the “frenzied killing” of psychologist Alex Turner. It explained how, while still on the run from the police, he was carrying out an “obscene poster campaign against attractive PR boss Kate Powell.”

The posters were described with relish, especially the first one, and the story dwelt on her refusal to comment on either her “affair” with Ellis, or if she’d had his “love-child” aborted. There was no mention of donor insemination. It ended with a quote from an unnamed source, speculating that Ellis could have murdered the psychologist because he was “maddened with grief”.

Inset in the article was the police photograph of Ellis, and also one of the second poster, less lurid in black and white. Beneath it was a photo of Kate herself. It had obviously been taken outside the agency. She was caught mid-step, and had a harried expression on her face as she walked obliquely towards the camera. I look old, she thought, with detachment.

There was a crack. Kate looked with surprise at the broken pencil in her hand. She couldn’t remember picking it up. She dropped the two halves into the bin, then went to the window. A little further down the street, on the opposite side of the road, was an alleyway. The photograph could have been taken from there. Or from one of the deep doorways.

She turned away as Clive knocked and entered.

“It’s in, then?”

Kate nodded, waving him to the newspaper still lying open on her desk. He read the article, then closed and folded the paper.

“Well. He can’t write for shit, anyway.”

She had to smile. But not for very long.

The story wasn’t in any of the other newspapers, but now it had appeared in one, the rest picked up on it.

The telephone rang repeatedly with requests for interviews, information. Kate didn’t take any of them. Caroline, Josefina or Clive would politely say that no, she had no comment to make. Several journalists actually called at the office, where they were told the same thing. When she went to her window she could see a group of photographers idling on the other side of the road, lookingcold but patient. Kate moved away before they saw her.

Collins was phlegmatic when she phoned him. He had already seen the article. “It was bound to come out, the longer all this went on,” he said. “We’ve been lucky to keep it quiet as long as we did.”

“What should I do?”

She heard him sigh. “That’s up to you. You could always go public. Tell them you’re still pregnant, and hope that Ellis sees it and believes you.”

Kate thought about the mocking grin of the journalist who had started all this. “I don’t think I can.”

“There’s your answer, then. Just keep your head down and keep saying, ‘No comment.’ The murder’s old news, now. They’ll get bored if you don’t give them anything new to write.”

The Inspector was right, but sooner than he could have expected. In the afternoon Clive came up to tell her that the waiting photographers and journalists had gone. “They just all took off at once,” he said. “Something else must have happened.”

The incident was in the evening news, a block of flats that had collapsed, providing scenes of carnage and death for the eager press. Kate was all but forgotten. Some of the papers ran small pieces on her the following day, but they were little more than recaps of the first and completely overshadowed by coverage of the more dramatic story.

The damage had been done, though. When she arrived at work next morning, the post had already been delivered.

There was no sign of Clive, and Kate huddled under her umbrella as she opened the mailbox and took out the selection of envelopes. She recognised the Parker Trust’s expensive stationery straight away. Unlocking the office, she left her umbrella to drip onto the floor and sat down behind a desk without taking off her coat or switching on the lights.

The other envelopes were ignored as she slit open the thick white one with a plastic paper-knife. Rain rattled against the window like hail as she withdrew the letter.

It was brief and to the point. The Trust regretted that, in view of the recent negative publicity received by herself and her agency, they were withdrawing their account. Such publicity was contrary to the Trust’s interests, as had already been made clear to her. While not wanting to appear in any way judgemental, it was nevertheless felt that there was no option but to terminate the Trust’s relationship with Powell PR & Marketing.

Kate could hear Redwood’s desiccated voice as she read it. She reached for the phone, then stopped. Her umbrella dripped onto the floor with the slow insistence of a clock.

The window rattled as a gust of wind struck it. She lowered the letter.

The door opened and Clive came in. He closed it quickly against the blast of cold air and rain. Kate drew herself up, preparing to tell him, when she saw his travel bag. Then she noticed his face.

“Clive? What’s wrong?”

He had made no attempt to take off his wet coat. He stood awkwardly, not looking at her.

“I’ve got to go up to Newcastle.” His voice was raw. “My mum phoned last night. My brother’s been in a car crash. He’s, uh … he’s been killed.”

Kate just stared at him. The inadequate I’m sorry went unsaid.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “The thing is, I don’t know how long it’ll be. The funeral’s got to be fixed, and — “

He broke off, covering his eyes. Kate saw his shoulders spasm. She quickly put the letter back in the envelope before he could see it.

He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I know it’s come at a bad time. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just take as long as you need.” She didn’t know what to say to him. “You didn’t have to come here to tell me. You could have just phoned.”

He adjusted his grip on the travel bag. “The train’s from King’s Cross, anyway. There’s one in half an hour that’ll get me there for dinnertime.”

“Have you got a ticket?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You’d better go. I don’t want you to miss it.”

Clive nodded but didn’t move. Kate came out from behind the desk, slipping the envelope into her pocket as she went over and gave him a hug. He returned it, then they broke apart.

“I’ll phone you.”

He went out. The umbrella still dripped onto the carpet, but more slowly now. Kate switched on the lights and started the coffee filter, then went down to the kitchen and stood her umbrella in the sink before going back upstairs to her office.

The letter from the Parker Trust crinkled in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the envelope without removing the letter. Abruptly, she tore it in half, ripping it into smaller and smaller pieces that she flung from her. They fluttered to the floor like dead moths as she snatched up her handbag and began pawing through it.

She pulled out the old packet of Camels. Her hands were unsteady as she put a cigarette between her lips and tried to get a flame from the lighter. It clicked, drily.

“Shit! Come on!” She banged it on the desk and shook it. The next flick produced a yellow smudge. She held it up to the cigarette, poised for a moment, and then with a sudden dip of her head put the tip into the flame.

It glowed brightly. A thin ring of fire chased towards her, leaving behind a fragile cylinder of pale ash as she drew the smoke down into her lungs. The cigarette was stale, but there was an instant nicotine hit. Her head swam, and for the space of a heartbeat she held her breath, letting the feeling soak through her. Then she was gagging. The smoke burned the back of her throat and nose as she choked and coughed. Eyes streaming, she stubbed out the cigarette in a half-empty teacup.

It died with a swift hiss. Kate pushed away the sludge of cold tea and ash and sank into her chair. Her mouth tasted foul. She dug in her bag until she found a screwed-up tube of mints. The peppermint sweetened her mouth, but didn’t take away the lung-deep feeling of pollution, or the fear that the single drag was already poisoning the foetus she carried.

Kate stared at the phone, then picked it up and dialled a number. It rang several times at the other end before she heard Lucy answer.

“Lucy, it’s Kate, look, I’m sorry — ” she said in a rush, then broke off.

Lucy’s voice continued. Kate listened to the recorded message for a few seconds longer, then hung up.

Caroline and Josefina arrived downstairs. She heard them moving around, talking. Some time later the intercom beeped. Kate watched the light flashing on it, but didn’t move. Eventually it stopped.

Later still she took the tea cup with the cigarette in it and washed it out in the kitchen.