He shifted in his chair. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about the other day. I was rude, I know. But I was tired, upset.”
“I understand,” Susan said. “It’s just that I got the impression there was something you wanted to tell me.”
Tom looked away over the river. His face was scrunched up in a frown, or maybe the sun was in his eyes. “You know, don’t you?” he asked. “You can tell.”
“That you’re homosexual? I have a strong suspicion, yes.”
“Am I that obvious?”
Susan laughed. “Maybe not to everyone. Remember, I’m a detective.”
Tom managed a weak smile. “Funny thing, that, isn’t it?” he said. “You’d think it would be men who’d guess.”
“I don’t know. Women are used to responding to men in certain ways. They can tell when something’s… ”
“Wrong?”
“I was going to say missing, but even that’s not right.”
“Different, then?”
“That’ll do. Look, I’m not judging you, Tom. You mustn’t think that. It’s really none of my business, unless your sexual preference connects somehow with your father’s murder.”
“I can’t see how it does.”
“You’re probably right. Tell me about this Aston, or Afton, then. When Chief Inspector Banks mentioned the name, you assumed it was a man. Why?”
“Because I didn’t assume. I know damn well who he is. His name’s Ashton. Bloody Clive Ashton. How could I forget?”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the son of one of my father’s clients – Lionel Ashton. We were at a party together once. I made a mistake.”
“You made advances toward him?”
“Yes.”
“And they weren’t welcome?”
Tom gave a dry laugh. “Obviously not. He told his father.”
“And?”
“And his father told my father. And my father told me I was disgusting, sick, queer, and that I should see about getting myself cured. That’s the exact word he used, cured. He said it would kill Mum if she ever found out.”
“And he suggested you take off to America for a while, at his expense?”
“Yes. But that came a bit later. First we let it lie while we figured out what was best.”
“What did you do in the meantime?”
Tom looked at her, tilted his tin back and finished his Coke. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Susan turned away and watched a family of ducks drift by on the Swain. Tom wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then said, “I followed him.”
She turned back toward him. “You followed your father? Why?”
“Because I thought he was up to something. He was away so often. He was always so remote, like he wasn’t really with us even when he was at home. I thought he was doing damage to the family.”
“He wasn’t always like that?”
Tom shook his head. “No. Believe it or not, Dad used to have a bit of life about him. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to make a bad joke.”
“I know. How long had he been behaving this way?”
“Hard to say. It was gradual, like. But this past couple of years it was getting worse. You could hardly talk to him.” He shrugged.
“Was that the only reason you followed him, because you thought he was up to something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get something on him. Revenge, I don’t know. Find out what his guilty secret was.”
“And did you?”
Tom took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out loudly with a nervous laugh. “This is harder than I thought. Okay. Here goes. Yes. I saw my father with another woman.” He said it fast, staccato-style. “There, that’s it. I said it.”
Susan paused a moment to take the information in, then asked, “When?”
“Sometime in February.”
“Where?”
“ Leeds. In a pub. They were sitting together at a table in the Guildford, on The Headrow. They were holding hands. Christ.” His eyes were glassy with gathering tears. He rubbed the backs of his hands over them and collected himself. “Do you know what that feels like?” he asked. “Seeing your old man with another woman. No, of course you don’t. It was like a kick in the balls. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Did your father see you?”
“No. I kept myself well enough hidden. Not that they had eyes for anyone but each other.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing. I left. I was so upset I just got in the van and drove around the countryside for a while. I remember stopping somewhere and walking by a river. It was very cold.”
“Was the woman dark-skinned? Indian or Pakistani?”
Tom looked surprised. “No.”
Susan took her notepad and pen out. “What did she look like?”
Tom closed his eyes. “I can see her now,” he said, “just as clearly as I could then. She was young, much younger than Dad. Probably in her mid-twenties, I’d guess. Not much older than me. She was sitting down, so I couldn’t really see her figure properly, but I’d say it was good. I mean, she didn’t look fat or anything. She looked nicely proportioned. She was wearing a blouse made of some shiny white material and a scarf sort of thing, more like a shawl, really, over her shoulders, all in blues, whites and reds. It looked like one of those Liberty patterns. She had long fingers. I noticed them for some reason. Am I going too fast?”
“No,” said Susan. “I’ve got my own kind of shorthand. Carry on.”
“Long, tapered fingers. No nail varnish, but her nails looked well kept, not bitten or anything. She had blonde hair. No, that’s not quite accurate. It was a kind of reddish blonde. It was piled and twisted on top with some strands falling loose over her cheeks and shoulders. You know the kind of look? Sort of messy but ordered.”
Susan nodded. Hairstyles like that cost a fortune.
“She was extraordinarily good-looking,” Tom went on. “Very fine, pale skin. A flawless complexion, like marble, sort of translucent. The kind where you can just about see the blue veins underneath. And her features could have been cut by a fine sculptor. High cheekbones, small, straight nose. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue. They may have been contact lenses, but they were sort of light but very bright blue. Cobalt, I guess. Is that it?”