Part 13 (2/2)

Zoe sighed. 'Come on, Ben I know you too well.'

He tapped his pen on the desk. 'Ralph Hernandez is a person of interest. That's all I can say at this point.'

'A ”person of interest”? Oh, for G.o.d's sake you are such a b.l.o.o.d.y moron it's just not true.'

'Am I, Zoe? Have you got any better leads than this?'

'I gave you this ”lead”. I handed it to you on a plate and I really, really thought you'd do the honourable thing. Just goes to show how much I know about the world, doesn't it?'

At that moment the door opened. Zoe swivelled round. Debbie was standing there, serene in her white lacy clothes. She had started to speak, but when she saw Zoe her face changed. 'Aaah,' she said apologetically. 'Sorry.' She held up a hand and backed out of the room. 'c.r.a.p timing not my strong point.'

She closed the door. There was a moment's silence. Then Zoe turned back to face Ben. She shook her head and gave a small, mirthless laugh. 'Funny,' she said. 'You never usually let anyone in without knocking. Unless they're ... you know ...' She made her hands into a cup on the desk. 'Unless they're inner circle. Is she inner circle now?'

Ben stared back at her stonily. 'Have you got any better leads than Ralph Hernandez?'

'So whatever she says you'll believe it? You'll convict that kid in there because of it?'

'My alternative is what? Choosing anyone, any route, any lead, just anyone because they don't don't fit the profile she drew up? I've been watching your inquiries, Zoe, and what it boils down to is that you'd rather let the killer go free than have Debbie be right. So who is worse? You or me?' fit the profile she drew up? I've been watching your inquiries, Zoe, and what it boils down to is that you'd rather let the killer go free than have Debbie be right. So who is worse? You or me?'

Zoe's face burned. 'This is all because of whatever it was I said the other night, isn't it?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, Ben, let's be honest. One minute we were fine doing fine. The next, everything's gone. Just ...' she flattened her hand and mimed an aeroplane flying '... like that. Gone. And you're hostile and distant, and, frankly, acting like a d.i.c.khead.'

Ben gave her a cold look. 'We've got no future, Zoe.'

'What? Because I don't pretend pretend to give a s.h.i.+t about people I really to give a s.h.i.+t about people I really don't don't give a s.h.i.+t about? Because I don't make a pantomime about how caring and give a s.h.i.+t about? Because I don't make a pantomime about how caring and simpatico simpatico I b.l.o.o.d.y am? Is that my sin?' I b.l.o.o.d.y am? Is that my sin?'

'Why do you have to insist you're bad?'

'Because I am.'

'Why do you insist you don't care for anything?'

'Because I don't. Because I don't care care for anything and I don't for anything and I don't need need anything.' anything.'

'Well,' he said quietly, 'don't jump all over me and make me feel small when I say this, but, Zoe, some people like to be needed.'

'Like to be needed? Well, that's not me.'

'Bulls.h.i.+t.'

'It's not not f.u.c.king f.u.c.king bulls.h.i.+t bulls.h.i.+t.' She pushed her chair back and leaned across the desk, putting her face close to his. 'I drove around the world on my own. I don't need you or anyone else. That's why I I'm solid and I I'm efficient. And anyway ...' She took a breath. Tried to put a bit more width and height into her shoulders. 'It doesn't matter because next thing we know you'll be having it off with Miss Cracker out there.'

He held her gaze. He had still, clear green eyes. 'Actually,' he said, 'I already am.'

Zoe stared at him. Something inside her was falling away. Dropping and dropping down into the floor. 'What?' she murmured. 'What did you say?'

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'But it's true.'

She was motionless, absolutely speechless. The scars on her arms ached, made her want to rip her sleeves up, but she held herself steady. She wouldn't let him know he'd poleaxed her.

'OK,' she managed to say. 'Then I suppose it's time I went.'

He nodded. The politeness, the openness of the nod, was the worst of it. This wasn't hurting him at all.

'But I'm right about Ralph,' she said. 'One hundred per cent right. He didn't kill Lorne.'

'Of course, Zoe.' He turned his computer screen around and put on his gla.s.ses. 'You're always right.'

32.

Sally called the NHS helpline. The woman she spoke to said Steve should go to his GP, but Steve had looked carefully at the wound and said that would be overreacting, that really it was just a hole in the skin, nothing more. Together they disinfected and bandaged it, cleared up the blood and put the nail gun, chisels and hacksaw into the boot of her car ready for the DIY on her house. After that they got on with lunch eating the tuna, picking through a bowlful of mango and raspberry sorbet, drinking coffee, and loading the dishwasher shoulder to shoulder, all without alluding to the conversation about David Goldrab. As if they'd decided, in a curious telepathic manner, to pretend it hadn't happened. It wasn't that they were solemn either in fact, they were light-hearted, making jokes about Steve's wound going gangrenous. How would it be if he lost his arm and had to walk around like Nelson for the rest of his life? Sally wondered if she'd dreamed the whole thing. If shady, raw acts like contract killings really happened, or if she'd somehow misunderstood what Steve was saying.

She got a text from Millie, who said she was getting a lift home in Nial's camper-van, and not to worry about coming to school, she'd see her at Peppercorn. She sounded happy, not nervous. Even so, Sally still made sure she was home by four thirty, waiting by the window in plenty of time to see Nial's half-painted van trundling along the driveway. Peter was sitting on the back seat, shades on, one arm draped casually around Sophie's shoulders. All of them were in summer school uniform, their hair gelled, spiked and decorated as much as they could get away with at Kingsmead. The van stopped and Millie got out without a word to the others. She slammed the door and strode up the path, her face like thunder.

'What's going on?'

She walked straight past Sally, down the corridor, into the bedroom and slammed the door. When Sally padded softly after her and listened, she could hear m.u.f.fled sobbing coming from inside. As if Millie was crying into the pillow. She opened the door, tiptoed in and sat on the end of the bed, resting her hand on Millie's ankle. 'Millie?'

At first Sally thought she hadn't heard. Then Millie sat up and threw herself at her mother, arms round her neck, head pressed against her chest, like a drowning victim. Sobbing as if her heart would break.

'What on earth's happened?' Sally pushed her back so she could see her face. 'Is it him? Jake? Did you see him?'

'No,' she sobbed. 'No, Mum. I can't handle it any more. Now he's with Sophie Sophie of all people. She's not even that pretty.' of all people. She's not even that pretty.'

'Who's not even that ...?' She thought about Sophie, with a dreamy look on her face in the back of the van, Peter's arm around her. She remembered what Isabelle had said about Peter being in love with Lorne and how it had upset Millie. This was all about him. Half of her was bewildered that her daughter couldn't see past Peter's blond hair and height, couldn't look into the future and see his beery red face at forty, his thick torso and rugby-club nights. The other half was relieved that this wasn't anything to do with Jake. Or Lorne.

'Hey.' She kissed Millie's head, smoothed her hair. 'You know what I've always told you. It's not what's on the outside, it's what's on the inside.'

'Don't be stupid. That's just c.r.a.p. No one looks on the inside. You're just saying that because you're old old.'

'OK, OK.' She rested her chin on Millie's head. Looked out at the fields and the trees and the clouds piled up like castles in the sky and tried to span her memory across the distance between fifteen and thirty-five. It didn't seem an eternity. But when she put herself in Millie's shoes and thought about her own mother fifteen years ago she saw how honest and clear that comment was. She let Millie cry, let her soak the front of her blouse.

Eventually the sobs died down to the occasional hiccup and Millie straightened up, her bottom lip sticking out. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. 'I don't really like him. Honestly. I really don't.'

'Is that it? Is that all that's upsetting you?'

'All?' Millie echoed. 'All? Isn't that enough?' Isn't that enough?'

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