Until it's Over Read online

  ‘OK?’ I said.

  She just turned and looked at me.

  Dario padded towards us. ‘Who are we waiting for?’ he asked.

  ‘Just Mick and Miles. I’m sure they’ll be out soon.’ I said it casually but Astrid jolted out of my embrace and stared at me, her eyes huge in her face.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  I looked at everyone else, as if they were the ones performing, not me. Mick walking down the steps towards us. People holding up their hands, shaking their heads in horrified denial, mouths open, weeping and wailing, arms round each other. I was at the centre of it. I got my arms round Astrid before Owen could, and I heard words coming out of my mouth and I thought they were the right words, the ones that wouldn’t be noticed by anyone. Mick was going on about tissue and hairs. I hugged Dario as well, feeling how sharp his bones were and how his flesh was chilly; his breath smelled of garlic. We were all wet from the drizzle. Our clothes clung to us. Raindrops ran down our faces. I said stuff like ‘Miles, Christ!’ and ‘Three women!’ It didn’t really matter. No one was listening to anyone else, we were all tottering around uselessly on the pavement, not knowing what to do next.

  Dario suggested going to the pub. That wasn’t good. That wasn’t in my plan. We needed to go our separate ways now. There wasn’t much time. Everyone else thought it was a good idea so of course I agreed and we made our way along the pavement, Astrid pushing her bike. I didn’t feel so well. There was a hissing in my head and my throat was like sandpaper. My eyes ached.

  I don’t know what everyone talked about. I could hear the words and I knew how to respond every so often so that it appeared I was part of the frantic emotions that were surging round the group, but I wasn’t. I was thinking. I was waiting. I was feeling the minutes tick by. I was swallowing my nausea. I was stopping myself imagining what would happen if things went wrong.

  When we finished our first drinks I offered to get the next round. But I went outside first. I got my penknife out of my pocket and sliced through both of the tyres on Astrid’s bike. You won’t get home on that, Astrid. You’ll have to go a different way. I went back into the heat and the noise and the glaring light, collected the drinks and returned to the table.

  Astrid was fumbling inside her jacket. ‘This is probably evidence of some kind,’ she said. ‘Before the police grab it, we should share it out.’

  ‘No,’ I said, blood pounding in my ears so I could barely hear myself speak. ‘For goodness’ sake, Astrid, people are already looking at us. Don’t flash money around in a place like this.’

  I looked round nervously. It seemed a feeble excuse but Astrid nodded. Perhaps it provided reason for them not to let go of each other finally, not to drift apart.

  ‘I’ll do the maths,’ said Pippa. ‘Then we can arrange to meet tomorrow somewhere a bit more salubrious. It’ll be an excuse for another farewell drink.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I was steaming in the muggy heat of the pub. Drops of sweat prickled down my neck like dozens of small flies.

  At last Pippa said she needed to make a move and everyone else was standing up, putting on their jackets. Astrid was standing up. She was pulling on her coat, tying its belt. We trooped outside, into the cool night, to discover her ripped tyres. How mean is that? Never mind. Walk to the Underground. Collect it later. She said we’d all meet tomorrow. Yes. Dream on, my darling. Dream on.

  She gripped my arm as she said goodbye and her touch burned through my clothes. I swear I could feel it like a brand on my skin. She kissed Pippa. Now she was speaking to Owen in a low undertone. He was speaking to her. Their heads were close together, nearly touching. She took his hand. Let it go. Now. Let it go. Stand away. This mustn’t happen. Don’t let them go off together. They couldn’t. I screwed my hands into fists and thought I’d have to scream out loud at any moment, to provide relief from the unbearable pressure building inside me. I would explode. Come apart. My head hammered.

  ‘Right, then.’

  Astrid stood back from Owen at last, and I felt relief flood through me, leaving me dizzy and weak as a kitten.

  At last she left, raising one hand in farewell as she went. Give her a count of ten before following. I got to six, then worried about losing her. Nobody was looking at me anyway. I saw Astrid walking along the pavement. Stay close, wait for somewhere isolated. I felt in my pocket. The penknife I had used on her bike tyres. The cool weight of a spanner. A blow from behind. She wouldn’t even know.

  ‘Mr Gifford?’

  I looked round. I was so taken by surprise that it took me a few seconds to realize it was Detective Chief Inspector Kamsky.

  ‘Who? Me?’ I said stupidly. Ahead, Astrid disappeared round a bend in the road.

  ‘Could we have a word?’

  Chapter Forty-two

  It had all gone wrong. Of course. I had dropped something somewhere, forgotten a detail. There was always a loose end, however much care you took. Even so, I hung on. I thought about how to be innocent. Ask questions, be puzzled. I could feel my face burning and there was a twitch at the side of my mouth that I couldn’t control, but somehow I managed not to collapse. I told myself it was all right to be a bit rattled. The police made ordinary people nervous. Only real criminals are casual and amused about being arrested. Kamsky barely spoke on the drive to the police station.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked, hearing how my voice came out a bit cracked and hoarse. I gave a sharp cough to clear my throat. ‘Is there something more you need to ask me?’

  ‘There’s someone who wants a word with you.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Is it someone I know?’

  Kamsky paused for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. ‘You’ll see,’ he repeated finally.

  I was thinking so desperately that I hardly noticed as the driver pulled into a car park behind the police station and I was led across the cracked tarmac, through a back door, along a narrow corridor into a room and left alone to walk up and down. I’d only left it a couple of hours earlier but it wasn’t like before. Nobody offered me tea. I didn’t know if it was the same room. It felt darker. I tried to compose myself. But not too much. I mustn’t seem defensive. The news wasn’t entirely bad. No. If they were simply arresting me, they would have done it immediately. I would have been warned. Wasn’t that the way it happened?

  Kamsky came into the room, carrying a cassette tape-recorder. Behind him was another man in a suit. He was heavily built with grey hair that looked as if it had just been combed, too hard, against his skull. Kamsky motioned to me to sit at the table. The two pulled chairs to the other side and sat down. Kamsky placed the tape-recorder on the table and looked at it for a moment but didn’t switch it on. ‘I’d like to introduce you to my colleague, Bill Pope,’ he said.

  ‘What’s this about?’ I said. I could feel the spanner in my pocket.

  ‘DI Pope came down this morning from Sheffield.’

  I clenched my fists, then relaxed them, hearing my knuckles crack. I tried to make myself appear alarmed but not too alarmed. I felt my features twist into an expression but I had no idea how I must look to an outsider.

  ‘Has something happened?’ I asked. Bees inside my skull. Buzz, buzz.

  Pope took a notebook from a pocket and opened it. He put on a pair of rimless glasses and peered down at it. ‘David Michael Gifford,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You used to live at fourteen Donegal Close.’

  ‘That’s right. Has something happened?’

  ‘When were you last there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. Was that my voice? Yes. ‘Five or six months ago.’

  ‘Who lives there now?’

  ‘My mum, I suppose.’

  Pope frowned. ‘You suppose?’

  ‘I haven’t been in touch for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  I gave a shrug. ‘When I came down to London, I wanted to m
ake a new start.’

  ‘What for?’

  There was a pause as I tried to think how a person who didn’t know what was going on would respond. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What’s this about? Has something happened?’

  Pope clicked and unclicked the pen he was holding. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Should it have?’

  ‘Please,’ I said, in a tone that was meant to sound distressed and confused. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Why did you leave Sheffield?’ Pope asked.

  ‘Look, what’s all this…’ I stopped. Get it right, Davy. Hang on. ‘I always knew I wanted to go to London. I got the offer of a job in London. It seemed the right time. Please could you tell me what this is about? You’re alarming me.’ I tried to smile at him. I couldn’t. The skin on my face was stiff like cardboard.

  Pope closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Concerns were expressed by residents of Donegal Close. Two days ago police officers forced entry to the premises and a body was found.’

  This was it. This was the big moment on which everything would depend. I’d thought about it for a long time. ‘Is it my mum?’ I asked.

  ‘The body had been there for some time. Months. But we managed to find out by… Well, we’ve confirmed it’s the body of Mary Gifford.’

  I could feel them staring at me. Their gaze on my face was hot like the sun.

  ‘Dead?’ I said. ‘What happened? How could she…? I mean, why did nobody find her?’

  I wasn’t able to cry but I rubbed my eyes hard and murmured unintelligible things. For a moment I put my face in my hands, shutting out their gaze and giving myself time to think. Then I looked up again. The two detectives stared at me impassively.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have been in touch. I didn’t call. I didn’t see her all the time I was away. But I never thought… I never imagined…’ I rubbed my eyes hard again, and let a few whimpers escape.

  ‘The officers talked to neighbours,’ said Pope. ‘They mentioned her son. They hadn’t seen you for some time. Or her.’

  ‘She wasn’t well,’ I said. ‘She wasn’t very mobile.’

  ‘Her body was in the bed.’

  ‘Bed,’ I said numbly. ‘She lay there a lot in the day.’

  ‘Nobody knew where you’d gone,’ said Pope. ‘But then your name popped up on the computer. Imagine our surprise. I thought I’d better come and see you.’

  ‘I’d have come up,’ I said. ‘Are you sure? My mother? Mum? She’s really dead?’

  ‘We need to ask some further questions,’ said Pope. ‘I now need to warn you that, in the case of charges being brought, what you say could be used as evidence in court. I should say also that you have the right to a lawyer present. If necessary, we can obtain one for you. Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly, as if in deep shock. ‘I don’t understand. Was there a crime?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to consider.’

  ‘Was she burgled? She wasn’t… Was she attacked?’

  ‘Did you understand my warning? Do you want a lawyer?’

  I’d thought about this carefully in advance and I knew what I was going to say. ‘A lawyer? What for?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Kamsky.

  ‘My mother’s dead,’ I said. ‘I loved her. I should never have left her alone. I’ll answer anything you want. I’ll do anything I can to help.’

  Kamsky switched the tape on and announced the date, the time and the place, the names of the officers present, my full name and that I had been told my rights and had agreed to be interviewed without a lawyer present. They began to ask me questions, but really over the next hour or so I learned far more than they did. I was deliberately vague and fumbling in my answers. After all, I was a son who had just been told his mother was dead and, despite his distress, was trying to do his best to help. If I had been precise in every detail about my movements and motives and what I had been doing in the weeks before I came to London and why I hadn’t returned or even been in touch, that’s what would have been suspicious.

  It became clear that, after the heat of the last few weeks, the body had been so decayed that it had been difficult enough to make an identification and impossible to find out anything else significant. I could imagine the sequence. First the flies, then the maggots, a boiling carpet of maggots, scouring everything away. It was obvious that they didn’t have anything but they’d brought me in to look at me, to jolt a reaction out of me. I didn’t need to be clever. The more confused and helpless the better.

  ‘I feel so terrible,’ I said at one point. ‘I thought her friends would look after her. I don’t know what could have happened.’

  ‘Did she have many friends?’ asked Pope.

  ‘A few,’ I said. ‘Less since she’d got ill.’

  ‘How ill was she?’

  ‘I don’t know what was wrong with her but I think she was sometimes in pain,’ I said, glassy-eyed. ‘I know she tried to keep it from me. But she was so brave about it. Maybe she tried to do too much.’

  I wanted to keep on playing stupid. I knew it was the right thing to do. But I couldn’t resist it. I had to know. I waited until the questions seemed to come to a halt.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Why are you both here?’

  ‘I need to consider all possibilities,’ said Kamsky.

  ‘My mother was found dead in her bed. In Sheffield. What do you mean, possibilities?’

  ‘I hate this case,’ Kamsky said.

  It was my own fault. I’d gone through that door. I decided it was time to get angry. ‘What do you mean, this fucking case?’ I said. ‘What case? You’ve just told me my mum’s dead. What are you talking about? You’ve arrested fucking Miles. What are you after? Ask me anything you want. I don’t care. But don’t fuck me around.’

  Too many fucks. That wasn’t how Davy talked. It sounded like play-acting. I gave a hoarse sob to make up for it.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Pope, in a more soothing tone. ‘Tell me about your mother. Were you close to her?’

  They tried to probe my psychology but it was going nowhere. I was able to bore them into submission. I sniffled a bit, and stammered. I went round in aimless circles. I did some more dry sobbing. I did some more hiding my head in my hands. Finally there was a pause and Kamsky looked at Pope, nodded, then leaned over and switched off the tape-recorder. They both seemed quietly irritated at the waste of time.

  ‘Please accept my condolences,’ said Pope.

  I didn’t reply. I was remembering the months of irritation with my mother that had built up like a noise inside my head. All it had taken was a pillow over her face and the noise had gone away. It had been so easy, as if I had just left her sleeping. Pope took the notebook and replaced it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘You’ll be contacted about the inquest,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wanting to arrange the funeral. And there’s the house to be dealt with.’

  The house. It had been there all this time, waiting for me.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mr Gifford?’

  ‘It’s a bit sudden,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to take it in. Being an orphan. And all that.’

  I looked at them in turn. It seemed to go down all right.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I had a house. They had no evidence against me and now I owned a house. Not a large one, not a lovely one, not one in a desirable area, not one I would ever want to live in. But mine. How much would it fetch? It had three bedrooms and a garden and I didn’t believe in ghosts. The nasty smell could be scrubbed away. A hundred grand? I hardly needed the money in Astrid’s jacket any more, but it wasn’t to be sniffed at – it would still come in useful. Say, a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. Not bad, not bad at all. I could never have got that much from Ingrid de Soto ’s house. Funny how things turn out.

  Or how things could turn out, I reminded myself. There were still things to do. Things in my way. There was the pap
erweight. Astrid just needed to hear about it, and to remember.

  I had been scared and tired even before Kamsky had tapped me on the shoulder, but now all of that had gone. I was on top form again. I could feel my thoughts clearing in my head. I could feel my heart beating steadily again and my muzzy fatigue lifting, like the fog lifts in the morning.

  I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. It was too late to find Astrid now. She’d be asleep somewhere, tucked up in bed, those big eyes closed and those golden limbs relaxed under the sheets, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. It was too late, as well, for me to find somewhere to stay now. I briefly considered going round to Melanie’s. She’d welcome me in, no matter how late it was. Indeed, she was probably lying awake, waiting for me to call or to come. But I couldn’t go to Melanie’s, not tonight, not ever again. She was history. I could hardly bring myself to remember her face, her dewy eyes, her frightened smile, her clutching hand.

  I found a nasty little café with grimy windows, which was still open. There were only two people in it – an old man with long grey hair tied back in a greasy ponytail who was sitting at a table, stirring sugar into a cup of very milky coffee, and a young woman at the counter. She had spiky blonde hair and a sulky mouth.

  ‘Are you still serving food?’ I asked her.

  ‘The chef’s gone home. I could give you a sandwich, if you want.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Bacon?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But we close in a few minutes.’

  ‘Right.’

  The bread was stale. The bacon was tough, fatty and cold and bits stuck in my teeth. The woman turned chairs upside-down on tables and swept crumbs up round my feet. The man with greasy hair shuffled out. When I had my money, I would go to smart restaurants with clean windows and polished tables where waiters in dark suits would fill my wine glass and bend respectfully over me, calling me ‘sir’. I chewed a few small mouthfuls very slowly, not hungry in the slightest but marking time, then ordered a coffee, though I didn’t need it to keep me awake. I was already wide awake, fully charged. The next twenty-four hours lay in front of me like a road, clear and straight. I felt the spanner in my pocket. I checked my mobile to make sure it had enough battery. There were several missed calls from Melanie, but I ignored them.