Charlie pushed the front door shut behind her and leaned against it. She had been feeling peculiar all day—at sixes and sevens—and now she just felt exhausted. Had she been stupid tackling Lloyd directly? She didn’t know him at all well and who was to say he wouldn’t have reacted angrily, even violently, to her accusations? She was glad she hadn’t thought too deeply about it or she probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. And that would have been wrong—she had played an unwitting part in the ambush on Helen and she had been determined to put that right. She didn’t want cowardice or caution to stop her. Not that Steve would have seen it like that, if anything had happened.
All she wanted to do was collapse on the sofa, but oddly her legs wouldn’t move. Her batteries were dead, as her father would say, and she remained where she was, propping up the front door. Somethingdefinitely wasn’t right. She felt more than peculiar now; she felt uncomfortable. The baby had been less active today, which had at first worried her, then intrigued her as she had felt the occasional cramp. Was this Braxton Hicks or something more meaningful? She wasn’t one to jump the gun, but today did feel different.
She looked down and was surprised to see her leggings stained dark. Placing her hand on her thighs, she found that her legs were wet. She investigated further and there was no doubt about it. Her waters had broken. The time had come.
The baby that she’d craved for so long was finally on her way.
116
She had never anticipated failure. Never seen it in her mind’s eye. So when it finally happened, she wasn’t quite sure how to behave.
The ring on the doorbell was insistent, but Ceri Harwood had nevertheless ignored it at first. Tim was there, driven home by guilt or uncertainty for another of their “chats,” and though she didn’t hold out much hope that this was anything more than window dressing, she didn’t want a postie or duster salesman interrupting them during such a raw conversation.
But the ringing then became repeated knocking on the door. It was obvious they were in, because the upper windows were open and the sitting room light on, so it seemed fruitless to hide. Ceri armed herself with a dismissive turn of phrase, but as she opened the door, words failed her. She could tell exactly who they were bytheir bad suits and their somber expressions, but it still came as a bit of a shock when they said:
“Anti-Corruption. Can we come in?”
Ceri Harwood. Head girl. Top of her class at Hendon. The youngest female DCI in the Met. Now staring at failure and, worse than that, possible ruin.
“Tim, we’d better take a rain check on this. There are a few procedural things that need to be sorted out.”
But he could tell she was lying. Had she gone pale? She felt like she had. Or perhaps she was just a bad actress—failing to cloak the anxiety that gripped her now?
“Can we do this here?” she asked as her husband watched on, making no attempt to leave.
“Better if we do this down the station,” came the sober reply.
“Is that really necessary?” Ceri said, her superior rank surfacing as she fixed them with a beady eye.
“Yes” was the blunt apologetic reply. “We’d prefer it if you came willingly, but if we have to arrest you—”
“Okay, okay.”
Now that it had come to this, there was no point in dragging it out. Picking up her bag, she nodded to Tim—and was surprised to find tears pricking her eyes. When she had started this thing, she was so sure that it would achieve the desired result, that she would drive Helen Grace from Southampton Central and be the top dog once more. Successful, untouchable, victorious. She paused on the threshold to smile a sheepish good-bye to Tim, and in that moment she knew—her defeat was total. She had reached the end of the road.
117
He worked the machine furiously, his anger with himself—with the world—unconcealed from all around. People came in and out as usual, but where he would normally exchange pleasantries with them, today he served them in silence, his glowering expression enough to repel any casual conversation.
A sudden sharp pain made him look down. Distracted, he had taken his eye off the machine and the blade had sliced his thumb right open.
“Fuck.”
He spat the word out, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Blood oozed from the deep cut. Flicking the machine off, he hurried out back, swathing his injured finger in rounds of paper towels. The blood seeped through the pale green toweling, but it looked more black than brown.
Why was he such a failure? Such a waste of space? Was he forever to be on this journey, searching, searching, searching—but finding only misery and crushing desolation? How could he have got it so wrong? He could see now that she wasn’t Summer. He had just been trying to convince himself, hoping against hope that her coldness and rough manner were some reserved anger at their long separation. But it had actually been because she was a nasty, worthless slut. Why had he lavished so much care, attention and—yes—love on her, when all she wanted to do was throw it back in his face and return to her peevish little stepfamily, who thought she was nothing but trouble? He knew enough about her to know that she spurned and ridiculed those who tried to help—why hadn’t he seen the signs? Why had he exposed himself in this way?
The blood was still oozing from his cut. There was no way he could do any more work today, so he might as well shut up shop. It was far too early to close and there would no doubt be a few shoppers confused by his unusual absence. His first instinct was to say “Stuff them,” but caution—his watchword—reasserted itself once more. So, having turned off the till, he started writing out a note blaming “staff sickness” for the temporary closure of the shop. It was hard going—he wasn’t used to writing with his left hand—and he was still writing when the ringing bell alerted him to the arrival of a customer.
“We’re closed,” he barked without looking up.
“The sign said you were open and this won’t take a minute.”
Her voice was soft and gentle. But he didn’t look up, concentrating even harder on his note.
“Please, could you squeeze me in?”
Sighing, he put down his pen. No point creating questions, when it was so easy to serve her and send her on her way. Looking up, he held out his hand.
