His image had lulled me to sleep when I came home at all hours from work, and his voice throbbed hungrily in my ears, but I needed to see him in the flesh. I’d set my alarm clock to give me plenty of time to be outside his house before he left for work, but I was so exhausted I slept right through it. When I started into wakefulness, I realized my only chance was to catch up with his tram a couple of stops further down the line.
The tram was pulling in as I ran on to the platform. I eagerly scanned the first section, but couldn’t see him. Anxiety rose in my throat like bile. Then I saw his gleaming head, sitting right by the door of the second carriage. I pushed through the crowd and managed to stand right next to him, my knees brushing his. At the physical contact, he looked up. His grey eyes crinkled at the corners and a smile flickered on his mouth. I smiled back and said, ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘This tram gets busier by the day.’
I wanted to continue the conversation, but for once I could think of nothing to say. He returned to the Guardian and I had to settle for watching him out of the corner of my peripheral vision while I pretended to stare out at the passing cityscape. It wasn’t much, I know, but it was a start. He had acknowledged me; he knew I existed. Now, it could be only a matter of time.
Shakespeare got it right when he said, ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ That way at least there would be fewer liars at large. Even the words sound the same; lawyer, liar. I should have expected nothing else from a man who speaks one day for the plaintiff, the next for the defendant.
I’d parked just round the corner from Gareth’s house, where I could watch him come home without being seen, thanks to the tinted windows of my jeep. His house had no hedge, so I could see right into his living room from my vantage point.
I knew his habits by now. He arrived home just after six, went through to the kitchen for a can of Grolsch, and returned to the living room where he drank his beer and watched TV. After about twenty minutes, he’d fetch some food from the kitchen – pizza, TV dinner, baked potato. Cooking clearly wasn’t his forte. When we were together, I’d have to take over responsibility for that side of our life.
After the news, he’d leave the room, presumably to do some work in another room of the house. I imagined law books arrayed on pine shelves. Then, he’d either return to the TV later in the evening, or walk down to the pub on the corner for a couple of lagers.
Gareth needed someone to share his life, I thought as I waited for him to come home. I was just the person to do that. Gareth was going to be my Christmas present to me.
At a quarter past five, a white Volkswagen Golf slipped into a parking place just beyond Gareth’s house and a woman got out. She leaned back into the car and picked up a briefcase bulging with files and a shoulder bag. I thought she looked vaguely familiar as she walked down the pavement. Petite, light-brown hair pulled back in a heavy plait, big tortoiseshell glasses, black suit, white blouse with a froth of lace at the throat.
When she turned in at Gareth’s gate, I couldn’t quite believe it. For the few seconds it took her to get to the door, I told myself she was his estate agent, his insurance agent, a colleague dropping off some papers. Anything. Anything.
Then she opened the flap of her bag and took out a key. My mind screamed ‘No!’ as she inserted the key into the lock and let herself in. The living-room door opened and she dumped her briefcase by the settee. Then she was gone again. Ten minutes later, she was back, wrapped in Gareth’s big white towelling dressing gown.
Frankly, I was with Shakespeare all the way.
’Twas the season to be jolly, so I forced myself not to let my disappointment colour my mood. Instead, I concentrated on researching my next project. I wanted something appropriate to the season, some good old barbaric Christian symbolism. There’s not really a lot you can do with a manger and swaddling clothes, so I allowed myself some artistic licence and went for the other end of the life.
Crucifixion as a form of punishment was probably borrowed by the Romans from the Carthaginians. (Interesting, isn’t it, how the Romans referred to everyone else as the barbarians …) The Romans adopted it round about the time of the Punic Wars, and initially, it was a punishment reserved for slaves only. Which seems appropriate enough, since that was the only role I expected Gareth to be fit for now. Later in the days of empire, it became a more general punishment, meted out to any locals who had the temerity to misbehave after the Romans had kindly come along and conquered – sorry, civilized – them.
Traditionally, the felon was flagellated, then forced to carry the crossbeam through the streets to the place where a tall stake had been driven into the ground. Then he was nailed to the crossbeam and hauled up by a system of pulleys. His feet were sometimes nailed, sometimes tied to the stake. On occasion, death by exhaustion was given a helping hand by the soldiers, who broke the legs of the victim, which must have allowed him a merciful lapse into unconsciousness. For my purposes, however, I decided to opt for the more decorative St Andrew’s Cross. For one thing, it would place more interesting stresses on Gareth’s muscles. For another, should he rise to the occasion, it would make access a lot easier.
Interestingly, crucifixion was never used as a punishment for soldiers except for the crime of desertion. Maybe the Romans had the right idea after all.
But who meantime was the victim, to whose abode he was hurrying? For surely he could never be so indiscreet as to be sailing about on a roving cruise in search of some chance person to murder? Oh, no: he had suited himself with a victim some time before, viz., an old and very intimate friend.
Brandon stared bleakly at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. Tom Cross might have been a long way from the ACC’s idea of the perfect copper, but he’d always appeared to be a good thief-taker. Antics like tonight’s served only to raise a question mark over his whole career. Just how many other people had Cross fitted up over the years without anyone being any the wiser? If Brandon hadn’t himself bent the rules and taken Tony on their illicit search, no one would have doubted the ‘evidence’ Tom Cross had turned up. No one except Stevie McConnell would have known that two of Cross’s three ‘finds’ had arrived with him. The mere thought of the consequences of that was enough to send a prickle of cold sweat down Brandon’s back.
Cross had left Brandon with no option but to suspend him. The disciplinary hearing that would inevitably follow would be painful for all concerned, but that was the least of Brandon’s worries. He was far more troubled about the effect on the murder squad’s morale. The only way to combat it was to take direct responsibility for the enquiry himself. Now, all he had to do was convince the Chief that he was right. With a sigh, Brandon pulled the last sheet of paper out of the machine and inserted another page.
His memo to the Chief Constable was brief and to the point. That only left one task before he could crawl home to bed. Sighing, Brandon glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes to midnight. He pushed the typewriter away from him and started writing on a sheet of his personal memo paper. ‘To Detective Inspector Kevin Matthews. From John Brandon, ACC (Crime). Re: Steven McConnell. Following the suspension of Superintendent Cross, I will assume direct command of the murder squad. There are no grounds for charging McConnell with anything other than assault. McConnell should be released on bail pending a court date for the assault charge, and on separate bail to return to Scargill Street in a week so that we can question him further if more evidence arises. In view of his refusal to give us any information about his contacts, or any names of people he might have introduced to Gareth Finnegan and Adam Scott, we should pursue any contacts he does make. A warrant for a tap on his phone should also be obtained,