Chapter Four
The tyre was hissing. Kim Sinker wondered if she had time to fix it. She was fifteen minutes early; she was always fifteen minutes early. She had parked, felt the potholes in the road and then heard the grinding sound by the front left wheel. The sun was bouncing off the red roof, warming and blinding her, and she reached for her sunglasses as she moved towards the boot.
Popping the latch, she remembered. There was no spare tyre on her Porsche Carrera. The manufacturer had long since phased out spare tyres, ‘to improve fuel efficiency’. Instead, the second-hand car had come with a tube of gunk, a jack and a compressor. It was her second red Porsche. The first had been a brand-new electric and she suffered too much with range-anxiety to keep it. When she traded it in for the 2004 Carrera, the dealer had mentioned that punctures were so rare she would not miss the spare: ‘You just lift, seal, reinflate.’
She looked away from the tyre and up at the top floor of the property. From one flat to another. It was the last she would show that week, and was much more than a regular apartment – this was a rare penthouse in Sidmouth.
The lane was one road back from one of the finest seafrontsin Devon and the large block of private flats overlooked the cricket green.
The property was one she had always wanted to show. The flats had first been sold the instant they were completed. But she would have been at college when those sales went through, back in the early 2000s. Most residents tended to leave the place in a box. Their families often found a way of keeping the flat when the will was actioned. Sons, daughters and grandchildren all fell in love with their mum and dad’s view of the sea, the brightness of the air. Being an estate agent, Kim would have liked 100 per cent inheritance tax and zero stamp duty. The more sales, the more turnover. No one should be allowed to stay in a place for forty years. But only death and divorce got them out of a spot like this. She laughed at the radical thoughts she allowed herself when she had a moment to reflect – positively North Korean.
Kim had parked diagonally. She would have to find out if the council had an action plan on the potholes; a single one could kill a sale.
She contemplated the flat tyre. She was not going to play the role of damsel-in-distress and call Edward. He was practical in his own way, but sometimes seemed to get lost inside his own head. She loved him for his warmth and humour, and the way laughter could roll from him like water from a stream, suggesting an infinite supply. Moments of sadness were understandable. She loved him for it all.
The picture of Edward in her mind spread warmth across her body. She had sold him that crazy property above Ladram Bay and the affair had begun then and there – just as crazy. Her using him rather than the other way around. Then he had lost his young son and disappeared from her life. Just before her own divorce, events had brought them back together.
She never expected him to be capable of the love he had shown her. She only saw the fire of her first marriage as she left it, like a driver watching a motorway pile-up in her rear-viewmirror. Divorce from a violent husband was like a rebirth. But Edward, this six-foot-something, sideburned, badly dressed man in permanent need of a haircut, who moved at times – in his oversized shoes – as if he felt he had no right to fill a hole in the air: he had been torn, not reborn, by his son’s death. Somehow he had willed himself to move beyond it. His love for her was a miracle.
Her phone was ringing, and she saw the name on her screen. As if her thoughts had drawn him. When she picked up, she heard a croak.
‘Nightmare.’
‘What? Who is this doing heavy breathing at me?’
‘It’s your boyfriend with no voice. I can’t even do my show tonight,’ rasped Edward at the other end. ‘I think I now have five minutes of voice thanks to a pastille.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘Listen, I was at an event for listeners and your mum was there.’
‘Why was it a nightmare?’
‘She decided to translate for me because of my voice. And I gather she got a few things upside-down.’
‘Like what?’
‘Apparently I promised the radio station would compensate victims of The Case. I’ve just had a call from Aspinall; he was ultra-aggressive, but also laughing at me, which was worse. He said if I wanted the scam victims compensated, he would divert “your own modest salary, Edward” straight to them, or, better yet, I could find a way to turn my show into a ratings driver. Which he said was unlikely, as “your bloody show has fewer scoops than theatre interval ice cream”. He was exceptionally rude.’
‘Well, that’s unfair. You’re not there to break stories, you’re there to talk about what’s happening already.’
‘He called me “The Official NFC”.’
‘What does that even mean?’
‘“Next for the chop”. Then he really started raging. He said if my show ever broke a story, it would probably collapse.’
‘Bastard. Workplace bullying.’
‘It all happened at Harpford Hall. I was speaking and I couldn’t make myself heard. Your mum’s translations were a bit wayward, to say the least, and—’
‘Don’t. I can’t bear it.’
‘Now Aspinall’s furious. He says compensating the victims of the scam would be half a million quid. I didn’t even say we would.’ He coughed. ‘Where are you? I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘What?’
‘Something good, big. I don’t want to get into it on the phone.’
