Gavin made an effort to stop an angry retort. This was beyond a reprimand, and certainly beyond issues of CID manpower.
Superintendent Tyrell shifted in his chair and looked, for the first time, uncomfortable. "You're a good copper, Hoxley. Don't make a balls-up of this. This is coming straight from the top. I can't ignore it, and you'd be a fool to."
"The top?" Gavin still wasn't quite believing what he was hearing.
"Whitehall, man. So save us all a load of grief. Go home, and forget you ever heard of David Rosenthal."
The gig had finished a little before midnight. They'd played in a public hall in Guildford, and Andy Monahan thought for the hundredth time that they were going to have to take a stand, the three of them, and tell Tam, their agent, not to take any more bookings in places like that.
The room had been filled with teenagers intent on snogging; drinking anything they could get their hands on; or smoking, inhaling, or ingesting likewise. There had been a few kids, up towards the front, who had actually listened to the music, but at the end of the evening he always felt they might as well have been playing for sheep.
Tam called these bread-and-butter bookings, but in Andy's opinion they didn't generate enough income to be worth the time and disappointment. And it was time they might have spent playing in a club where someone who mattered might have heard them.
They'd had to load up their own equipment, of course, then cross their fingers as usual and hope that George's van made it back to London in one piece. As Andy hadn't been driving, he'd drunk his share of the bottle of vodka going round in the back, but rather than making him mellow, by the time they reached Oxford Street, he was more pissed off than he'd been when they left Guildford.
George slowed at Hanway Street and pulled into the curb. "Close enough, mate?" he asked. "Don't want to try to get the van round that corner." Hanway Street made a sharp right into Hanway Place, where Andy lived in a housing-authority flat, and if anyone had parked illegally, the van would have to be backed out into Oxford Street, no mean feat even for the entirely sober.
"Yeah, thanks." Andy climbed out, cradling his Stratocaster in its case. His amps he would leave in the van, as they had another gig tomorrow night-or tonight, he reminded himself, glancing at his watch, which showed it had just gone two.
Nick, who had drunk more than his fair share of the vodka, leaned out the window and intoned with great seriousness. "Chill, Andrew. You've got to chill, man."
Andy's frustration flared like a lit fuse. "Fuck you, man," he shouted back, and aimed a vicious kick at the side of George's van. But George was already pulling away, and the attempted blow only made him lose his balance. "Fucking morons," he muttered, teetering for a moment, then righting himself, holding the Strat case to his chest as if it were a child.
Maybe it was time he started looking for another band, one that really wanted to make music. And maybe he'd drunk a bit more than he'd thought, he decided as he trod carefully up the narrow street. Had to watch where you put your feet, people were always leaving bloody rubbish on the pavement. He'd stepped over a paper McDonald's bag, a broken beer bottle, and what smelled suspiciously like a puddle of urine, when he saw what looked like a large plastic bin liner lying in the middle of the street, just after the bend. A bin liner with things spilling out, even worse. But it was an odd shape, with what looked like arms and legs, except the angles were wrong.
Andy slowed, squinting, wishing he wasn't too vain to wear his glasses to a gig. Reaching the bundle, he pushed at it with his toe and met a slightly yielding resistance, and then the shape resolved into a human form, a man in a dark suit, lying in the street. Drunk, Andy thought fuzzily, but no one could lie like that, even if they'd passed out, legless. And the face-the face was turned away from him, but he could see that its shape was wrong, too, as if it had been mashed by a giant hand. Worse still, even distorted, it was a face Andy recognized.
Dear God. Andy backed up until his heels hit the curb, sat down with a graceless thud, and vomited right down the front of his Stratocaster case.
CHAPTER 13
On numerous occasions during the 1930s-even after Kristallnacht-British diplomatic observers concluded that anti-Jewish violence had passed its peak.
– Louise London, Whitehall and the Jews, 1933-1948
Gemma had sat at the hospital bedside until long after Vi drifted off, watching her mother's face, made unfamiliar by repose. When had she ever watched her mother sleep, seen the tiny tics that signaled dreams, wondered what her mum was dreaming?
What did she know of her mother's memories or desires, of her life outside of the daily routine of husband, children, and work? Had her mum imagined a different life for herself, adventures that had never come to pass, a husband or lover who expected more than familiarity and tea on the table?
Even now, lying in bed watching the splash of early morning sun on the opposite wall and enjoying the warmth of the cocker spaniel sprawled across her feet, she felt unsettled in a way that was deeper than worry over cancer and treatments, although that was bad enough.
Last night she had sensed a resignation that frightened her. What if her mum didn't want to fight this thing? Could she, who had always seemed indomitable, leave them so easily? Would she slip away, leaving Gemma to discover she had never really known her at all? And someday would her own children feel the same way about her?
She could hear the boys' voices floating up from downstairs, a medley of the usual morning laughter and complaint. They had been asleep by the time she'd got home last night, and this morning Duncan had been up early, whispering that she should have a lie-in, that he would get the boys ready for school.
But suddenly she wanted to be up, wanted to be in the midst of the clamor, wanted to spend the time she'd missed with the children the past few days. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, saying, "Sorry, boy," as she gave Geordie an apologetic pat. Grabbing a dressing gown, she padded barefoot down the stairs, the dog following.
She found the boys in the kitchen, dressed in their school uniforms, eating toast, and Kincaid slipping into his jacket.
"I've got to go," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll take Toby. Come on, sport," he added. "Last bite, and get your satchel."
"No, wait," said Gemma. "He can be late. You go on."
"You're sure?"
"Positive." She brushed a stray dog hair from his jacket and waved him off. "Go."
"I'll ring you."
When the door had closed behind him, she turned to the boys. "What's your first class, Kit?"
"History," he mumbled through toast and jam, making a face.
"Any papers due, or quizzes?"
"No. Just old Toady lecturing." He gave an exaggerated snore.
"Old Toady?"
"Mr. Tobias," Kit corrected, rolling his eyes. "Why would anyone want to know about the War of the Roses? Dead boring, if you ask me."
"I'm sure I don't know, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt you to miss a lecture." When Kit stared at her in surprise, she grinned back. "I have a plan."
Cullen paused at the door to Kincaid's office. His boss sat at his desk, head bent over a disordered fan of papers. His hair stood on end and the knot on his tie was pulled loose, unusual evidence of frustration so early in the day. Maybe, thought Cullen, he could improve things.
"Name and address, guv," he said, entering.