‘Oh, Sid!’
‘Tell me.’
She tried, the tears trickling while she spoke. ‘The disease came back in Rachel after less than two years, and that’s not good. Her hair was beginning to grow, but it came out again with the drugs. They re-established her again in remission, and they’re so good, it isn’t so easy the second time. But I know from their faces — and they don’t suggest transplants unless they have to, because only about half of bone-marrow transplants are successful. I always talk as if a transplant will definitely save her, but it only might. If they found a tissue match they’d kill all her own bone marrow with radiation, which makes the children terribly nauseous and wretched, and then when the marrow’s all dead they transfuse new liquid marrow into the veins and hope it will migrate into the bones and start making leukemia-free blood there, and quite often it works… and sometimes a child can be born with one blood group and be transfused with another. It’s extraordinary. Rachel now has type A blood, but she might end up with type O, or something else. They can do so much nowadays. One day they may cure everybody. But oh… oh…’
I put my arm around her shoulders while she sobbed. So many disasters were forever. So many Edens lost.
I waited until the weeping fit passed, and then I told her I’d discovered who had maimed and destroyed Silverboy.
‘You’re not going to like it,’ I said, ‘and it might be best if you can prevent Rachel from finding out: Does she ever read the newspapers?’
‘Only Peanuts.’
‘And the television news?’
‘She doesn’t like news of starving children.’ Linda looked at me fearfully. ‘I’ve wanted her to know who killed Silverboy. That’s what I’m paying you for.’
I took out of my pocket and put into her hands an envelope containing her much-traveled check, torn now into four pieces.
‘I don’t like what I found, and I don’t want your money. Linda… I’m so very sorry… but it was Ellis Quint himself who cut off Silverboy’s foot.’
She sprang in revulsion to her feet, immediate anger filling her, the shock hard and physical, the enormity of what I’d said making her literally shake.
I should have broken it more slowly, I thought, but the words had had to be said.
‘How can you say such a thing?’ she demanded. ‘How can you? You’ve got it all wrong. He couldn’t possibly! You’re crazy to say such a thing.’
I stood up also. ‘Linda…’
‘Don’t say anything. I won’t listen. I won’t. He is so nice. You’re truly crazy. And of course I’m not going to tell Rachel what you’ve accused him of, because it would upset her, and you’re wrong. And I know you’ve been kind to her… and to me… but I wouldn’t have asked you here if I’d thought you could do so much awful harm. So please… go. Go, just go.’
I shrugged a fraction. Her reaction was extreme, but her emotions were always at full stretch. I understood her, but that didn’t much help.
I said persuasively, ‘Linda, listen.’
‘No!’
I said, ‘Ellis has been my own friend for years. This is terrible for me, too.’
She put her hands over her ears and turned her back, screaming, ‘Go away. Go away.’
I said uncomfortably, ‘Phone me, then,’ and got no reply.
I touched her shoulder. She jerked away from me and ran a good way down the lawn, and after a minute I turned and went back into the house.
‘Is Mummy crying?’ Rachel asked, looking out of the window. ‘I heard her shout.’
‘She’s upset.’ I smiled, though not feeling happy. ‘She’ll be all right. How are the fish?’
‘Cool.’ She went down. on her knees, peering into the wet little world.
‘I have to go now,’ I said.
‘Goodbye.’ She seemed sure I would come back. It was a temporary farewell, between friends. She looked at the fishes, not turning her head.
‘Bye,’ I said, and drove ruefully to London, knowing that Linda’s rejection was only the first: the beginning of the disbelief.
In Pont Square the telephone was ringing when I opened my front door, and continued to ring while I poured water and ice from a jug in the refrigerator, and continued to ring while I drank thirstily after the hot afternoon, and continued to ring while I changed the battery in my left arm.
In the end, I picked up the receiver.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
The Berkshire voice filled my ear, delivering not contumely, but information. Norman Picton, Detective Inspector, Thames Valley Police.
‘You’ve heard the news, of course.’
‘What news?’ I asked.
‘Do you live with your head in the sand? Don’t you own a radio?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Ellis Quint is in custody,’ he said.
‘He’s what?’
‘Yes, well, hold on, he’s sort of in custody. He’s in hospital, under guard.’
‘Norman,’ I said, disoriented. ‘Start at the beginning.’
‘Right.’ He sounded over-patient, as if talking to a child. ‘This morning two plainclothes officers of the Metropolitan Police went to Ellis Quint’s flat overlooking Regents Park intending to interview him harmlessly about his whereabouts early Saturday morning. He came out of the building before they reached the main entrance, so, knowing him by sight, they approached him, identifying themselves and showing him their badges. At which point,’ Picton cleared his throat but didn’t seem able to clear his account of pedestrian police phraseology, ‘…at which point Mr Ellis Quint pushed one of the officers away so forcefully that the officer overbalanced into the roadway and was struck by a passing car. Mr Quint himself then ran into the path of traffic as he attempted to cross the road to put distance between himself and the police officers. Mr Quint caused a bus to swerve. The bus struck Mr Quint a glancing blow, throwing him to the ground. Mr Quint was dazed and bruised. He was taken to hospital, where he is now in a secure room while investigations proceed.’
I said, ‘Are you reading that from a written account?’
‘That’s so.’
‘How about an interpretation in your own earthy words?’
‘I’m at work. I’m not alone.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Did Ellis panic or did he think he was being mugged?’
Picton half laughed. ‘I’d say the first. His lawyers will say the second. But, d’you know what? When they emptied his pockets at the hospital, they found a thick packet of cash — and his passport.’
‘No!’
‘it isn’t illegal.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He hasn’t said anything yet.’
‘How’s the officer he pushed?’
‘Broken leg. He was lucky.’
‘And… when Ellis’s daze wears off?’
‘It’ll be up to the Met. They can routinely hold him for one day while they frame a charge. I’d say that’s a toss-up. With the clout he can muster, he’ll be out in hours.’
‘What did you do with my report?’
‘It went to the proper authorities.’
Authorities was such a vague word. Who ever described their occupation as ‘an authority’?
‘Thanks for phoning,’ I said.
‘Keep in touch.’ An order, it sounded like.
I put down the receiver and found a handwritten scrawl from Kevin Mills on Pump letterhead paper in my fax.
He’d come straight to the point.
‘Sid, you’re a shit.’