When John arrived at the Community Centre Connor was playing pool with a group of young teenagers in a windowless games room. He was bent over the table, concentrating on the shot and did not see John, lounging just inside the door, until he straightened.
‘What are you doing here?’
John shrugged. ‘ I wanted to talk to you.’
‘What is it?’ All his attention was still on the game.
John looked at the boys. ‘ Not here,’ he said.
For the first time Connor looked directly at him, frowning.
‘I’ll be in the office,’ he said to the boys, ‘if you need me.’
The office was a tip. There were boxes full of information booklets, rolled-up posters, a row of dirty coffee cups, and half a bottle of sour milk. Against one wall was a table with a heavy manual typewriter and a phone. Connor cleared a pile of paper from the only chair and motioned John to sit on it. He squatted on the floor.
‘What’s bugging you?’ he said.
‘The police have been to the school,’ John said.
‘Who?’
‘A detective sergeant called Hunter. I don’t think he’s local. He was asking questions about Gabby Paston.’
‘That’s all right then. Just tell him what he wants to know. Within reason.’
‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Of course it’s easy. But you must keep your nerve. Use your head. Did anyone see you come here?’
‘No,’ John said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Go and have a game of pool with the lads just in case. It’ll explain you being here if anyone asks.’
‘Why should anyone ask?’ There was a trace of panic in his voice.
‘Don’t worry. They won’t. But just in case. Now piss off. I’ve work to do.’
John played two games of pool with the boys in the games room, then wandered back to say goodbye to Connor, who was still in the office. He was talking animatedly on the phone, replacing the receiver as John came into the room.
‘That was Tommy Shiel’s wife,’ he said. ‘ Tommy was found guilty this afternoon of handling.’
John said nothing.
‘That bitch Amelia Wood was chair of the bench,’ Connor said. ‘He’d not stand a chance with her. She’d bring back flogging given the chance.’
‘Look,’ John said awkwardly. ‘I’ll be off.’ But when he got outside he saw it was still only five o’clock and he decided not to take the direct route home.
He must have arrived back at Barton Hill just after his mother because her car was parked on the drive and she sat still in the driver’s seat as if she was exhausted. When she saw him she got out and began to pull carrier bags of groceries from the boot. She’d just been to the supermarket, she said, for the late-night shopping. She’d meant to go earlier but she hadn’t been able to face it. What would Evan say? She hadn’t even thought about what they’d eat tonight.
They stood together in the white security light, surrounded by carrier bags while she fiddled with her key to let them into the house. He could feel her unhappiness.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘ You look awful. What is it?’
She pulled away from him. ‘ Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this shopping inside. There’s a pile of stuff for the freezer and it’ll all be melting.’
When Evan Powell arrived home at eight o’clock the frustrations of the day were compounded by the fact that the table wasn’t set and there was no meal ready for him. He was lucky to get the overtime. He only worked it for Jackie and the boy. It would have been nice to have been appreciated. But he restrained his feelings. Jackie looked so tired and ill, was so apologetic about the lack of a cooked meal.
‘I could do an omelette,’ she said nervously. ‘That wouldn’t take long.’
Evan felt suddenly very protective. He put his arm around her and sat her on his knee. She sat where he had placed her and he could feel her bony frame shaking slightly with anxiety. He was overcome by tenderness and guilt.
‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘What sort of monster do you think I am? I know I take you for granted but I’m not going to throw a tantrum because supper’s not ready. Look, I tell you what. Why don’t we go out for dinner? The three of us. It’s not too late to book a table at the Holly Tree. We haven’t celebrated my promotion yet. Let’s give ourselves a treat.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. I’m really tired. And I’ll need to change.’
But she turned to him, trapped by his kindness like a moth by a light.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘ Go upstairs and make yourself beautiful. I’ll phone the restaurant. It’s mid-week. They’ll fit us in.’
He thought she was going to argue again but she did not move. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. She had always been incapable of standing up to him. ‘Yes.’
The Holly Tree was a double-fronted Georgian house on the edge of St Martin’s Hill. It was part of an elegant crescent and had a long back garden with a famous herb bed and a terrace where diners could take their drinks in the summer. Access was from the road at the front and from a small gate at the back used by Martin’s Dene residents who walked to the restaurant over the hill.
In the Holly Tree Evan Powell was determinedly cheerful. He praised the table they were given near a long window overlooking the garden, the atmosphere, the menu.
‘Now!’ he said. ‘What about a drink?’ He never drank himself but he prided himself on being broadminded. He wanted them all to be happy. He had a sudden recollection of a family outing to the beach when John was a toddler, of splodging in rock pools and fish and chips eaten in the car on the way home. It seemed to him now that when he was with them he spent all his energy trying to recreate the same closeness. It was the first time the three of them had been out for months yet they seemed to have nothing to say to each other.
Jackie ordered a gin and tonic which she drank very quickly. She was thinking inevitably of Lynch, of what a mess it all was. She wished she could tell him how much she had sacrificed, make him understand what she was going through, but she knew the man well enough to realize that if she put him under pressure he would just lash out and destroy her. Evan had begun to talk about his day at work, the robbery on the Coast Road, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
John drank lager and thought about Connor and Sam Smollett and of how much the two had in common.
How Connor would sneer, he thought, if he could see him now.
‘Gabby Paston was here yesterday,’ he said suddenly. From Sam Smollett he had gone on to think of Abigail Keene and he spoke the words without thinking. He regretted them immediately.
‘What do you mean?’ Evan Powell looked up from his meal.
‘She was here yesterday. She had an appointment for lunch. She told someone in class.’