‘We got the results back — from the hospital?’ She sounded upbeat, so Shaw feared the worst. Her voice came and went.
‘It’s some colour I’m allergic to — but they can’t say which one …’
‘OK,’ said Shaw. ‘Is Mum there?’
She gave him a long drawn out, sing-song ‘Bye-eee’.
Lena was sharp, businesslike. ‘Where are you?’
‘Quayside — signal’s dreadful. Must be the storm passing through. I’ve got to see the team, get up to speed, complete an interview — then I’ll ring. Case has just turned itself upside down, again.’ She didn’t fill the silence up so he pressed on. ‘Fran said the allergy clinic had results?’
‘Yup. Simple, really — it’s something in milk reacting with something in one of the food colourings. Put ’em together and she gets an attack. Houghton — the consultant? He said it would wear off like the milk allergy. Meantime we have to avoid the E-number. I’ve got a note. But it’s part of whatever makes a colour, not the colour itself. So it’s not straightforward — but then it never is.’
‘Great. She OK?’ In the background he could hear the old dog whining, jealous of the attention he was losing.
A further burst of static cut out some of the reply. ‘She’d rather be watching Santa float by — but she’ll live,’ said Lena, her voice floating back with the signal. ‘If you’d said earlier, Peter, I could have taken her, but it’ll be murder down there now and I can’t go out — I’ve got a shop full of stock and the Speedo rep’s due any minute.’
‘I know. Sorry. That’s where we’re headed — Wells. But it’s business, not pleasure, I don’t think George believes in Santa any more. And you’re right, it’ll be packed, we’re going to give it another half hour, let the crowds get in place at least. I’d better go,’ he said, changing his voice, knowing that if he kept the conversation going he’d end up in an argument.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Fran’s just seen Justina out on the beach, so we’re taking the dog out. Bye.’
The line went dead. He thought about the pathologist, the Labrador dogging her steps along the high-tide mark. Valentine pulled the door open and threw himself into the seat, cradling wrapped chips and takeaway tea.
They ate in silence. Then Shaw stopped, because he had that very odd feeling that his brain was working on something, processing detail, trundling towards a synthesis of images, a process sparked by what Lena had told him about Fran’s allergy. He thought about the little pillboxes in a line in the bathroom.
He let three specific images float into his conscious mind.
First: Bea Garrison standing behind the dispensary counter of the store in Hartsville, North Dakota. Shaw imagined a white coat, her hair held up with pins, brown paper packets for the drugs. He knew it hadn’t been like that, that this image was culled from 1950s black-and-white movies, but it was a vivid snapshot nonetheless.
Second: a soup dish on an abandoned table at the Shipwrights’ Hall, some liquid left in the bottom, the out line of a cockle in the thick fishy sauce.
And the third image: Ian Murray, pushing his way backwards through the door marked staff into the dining room at the Flask, in his hands three plates loaded with food, heading for a table with three waiting diners.
He scrunched the chip paper and kicked open his door to walk to the bin. He could have stashed it in the car, but he wanted to think in the open air. By the time he got back to the Porsche he’d done thinking, and his body screamed for action. He’d hit 60 mph by the time he got the car to the end of the quay, leaving Valentine to pick chips off his lap.
40
Shaw left Valentine in the Porsche with what was left of the chips and ran to the cafe along the dark sands. He could have rung Justina but if they were out with the dogs the signal would be weak. And he wanted to get this straight. He needed the medical science, and he needed it now. Because if he was right, then this was the key, the lynch pin. The beach was empty, cleaned by the storm which had blown out, so that the only marks on the pristine moonlit strand were Justina’s footsteps. The air was still, the dune grass was frosted, the edge of the sea just trembling on the sand.
He ran up the wooden steps and pushed open the cafe door.
They were all sitting around a table, Lena and Fran and Justina, and on the polished floorboards over by the stove, the dogs. Lena had made tea and there was a plate of sliced cake in the middle of the table, but no one had taken any. So he knew something was wrong because the cake was simnel, his daughter’s favourite, and her plate was clean.
Before he could sit down Lena shook her head.
‘It’s Dawid, Peter,’ she said. ‘He died.’
Justina looked pathetically grateful that someone else had said it.
Shaw knew that if he didn’t touch Justina now he never would again: that it was one of those moments in a friendship when you have to redraw the boundaries.
He knelt beside her seat and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He saw Dawid, sat at this table, and the sudden unanticipated sight of blood on his gum.
‘It’s not unexpected, Peter,’ she said, but her eyes filled as she spoke, one spilling tears. But the shock was real enough, and had changed her face so that it was much more mobile than usual, the emotions running across it like a wind over wheat. She drank her tea, declining Shaw’s offer to stiffen it with a whisky shot.
Dawid had been diagnosed eight months earlier, she explained. Polycythaemia vera, PV to a doctor. A rare blood disease in which the body makes too many red blood cells. The extra red blood cells make your blood sticky. The thickened blood flows more slowly through your small blood vessels and forms clots. They cause heart attack and stroke. They knew he wouldn’t live — not for long; there isn’t a cure, just treatment.
Dawid had always wanted to live by the sea. They’d been saving the move for retirement, but after his diagnosis they’d sold up immediately and moved to the coast. The end had come a few hours ago. A sudden massive stroke as Dawid slept by the picture window. She’d been with him, watching his face change as gravity took control.
They’d taken the body away, leaving Justina a lonely widow in an empty house.
‘So I came here,’ she said. She paused then and Shaw sensed that if she didn’t go on immediately she’d cry. She took in a breath. ‘I had a favour to ask,’ she said. Her hand crept towards the tea cup, then pulled back. ‘I wondered — if you didn’t mind — if I could take Fran out. Not now,’ she added, laughing tightly. ‘I don’t know — once a week? Whenever it’s OK with you. Only, there’s no family, some cousins in Poland. But no family really. And I’d enjoy that. Only if she wants? We could walk the dogs.’
Fran nodded her head quickly. Justina leant forward, took a slice of simnel and put it on Fran’s plate.
Shaw stood. ‘I’m sorry. I’d have liked to have known Dawid better.’ He zipped up his jacket, looking back along the beach. ‘George’s waiting. I’ve got to go. I should be taking Fran to the Christmastide at Wells. But work …and Lena has to stay here. Work too.’
Fran studied her simnel cake.
Justina stood. ‘I’ll take her,’ she said, as Shaw had known she would.
‘I can drop you both off, but I can’t stay.’
‘Peter …’ said Lena, taking Justina’s hand. ‘For goodness’ sake.’
Justina stood. ‘I’d like that. That’s a good idea.’ She turned to Lena. ‘What else am I going to do tonight?’
‘There’ll be crowds — can you take that?’ cautioned Shaw.
‘Crowds are best,’ said Justina. ‘Really.’
Ten minutes later Fran got in the back of the Porsche, Valentine squeezed in beside her, while Justina took the passenger seat in the front, because Shaw asked her to sit and talk. When they were up on the coast road he was the first to speak.