Cowards Die Many Times Read online

  ‘Your father? What’s come up?’

  ‘I went to see my mother, like you suggested. God, you should see her house! It’s near Bournemouth, right on Poole Harbour. There are ferries and yachts, just at the bottom of the garden. It’s stunning.’

  ‘You and she got on okay?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Yeh, pretty much. We didn’t hug and kiss, but she’s not the huggy, kissy type and I’m the mad, resentful type, of course. But given that, it could have gone much worse.’

  ‘That’s great, Jane. It’s got to help with some of those demons in your head.’

  ‘But it’s what she told me about my father that’s thrown everything up in the air.’

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted.

  ‘All my life I’ve blamed her for driving him away. It turns out that childhood memory of him getting on a ship, well, it never actually happened. It’s haunted me over the years, but it isn’t real. They told me he’d sailed to South Africa to spare my feelings. The bastard had just left my mother for another woman. And left me… because he wanted to make a fresh start and just didn’t care.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jane! That’s heavy. Are you okay? Maybe you do need to see the doc again and get back on the pills.’

  She shook her head. It was a gesture unseen down the phone line, but it helped her reinforce the negative response in her own mind. ‘No. I’m good. Goodish. All my life, I’ve been looking for him around every corner. But it turns out I was looking for someone else. Someone who loved me. And he didn’t.’

  There was a few seconds’ silence as Dave struggled for an adequate reply. He couldn’t find one. ‘You said you wanted a favour. What can I do?’

  ‘My mother said the bastard only moved to London, initially at least. Subsequently went abroad. The thing is, she reckoned he was a bit of a villain. I’m not sure what records the Met might have on him from back then, but I need you to look for me. The stupid thing is, if I’d have known all this when I was in the force, I could have checked myself.’

  ‘You sure you still want to find him, Jane?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a hardness to her voice. ‘It’s just that I’m not going to have stars in my eyes anymore.’

  ‘Did your mother give you any more clues?’

  ‘No, it’s all very vague. Though I do now have a photo of him. I can email it to you.’

  Dave’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That would be interesting. You’ve described him to me so many times. Does he look like you remember?’

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Full name Stephen Jones. No middle names? Nothing helpful like Stephen Rupert Bridlington Jones?’ asked Dave, hopefully.

  ‘Just Stephen Jones. Stephen with a ‘“ph”. That's what’s on my birth certificate anyway. It’s part of the reason I’ve never been able to track him down. My mother wasn’t even sure where he was born. He travelled around a lot he reckoned.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll look. I’ll probably find a few customers called Stephen Jones, but I’ll do my best.’ Dave paused while he thought through how to deliver on his offer. ‘Trouble is, I’m on a residential course at the moment. I won’t be back in the station for a week. I can’t really phone up and ask one of my guys to misuse police resources on my behalf. Not with the prat of a sergeant I’ve got at the moment.’

  Jane felt a surge of disappointment but pushed it aside. ‘I’ve waited all my life – a couple of weeks won’t make much difference. My father doesn’t have the same hold on me as he used to,’ she said, willing herself to believe it was true. ‘So where are you? Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Hutton. You know Lancashire Constabulary’s headquarters up near Preston.’

  ‘Okay, not necessarily my first choice of holiday location. What’s the course about?’ The ex-policewoman in her meant she was only partly feigning interest.

  ‘It’s for inspectors looking to make superintendent. Lots of political stuff about equal opportunities and diversity, the changing face of Britain. I’m currently writing a presentation called, “Are the poor getting poorer?” would you believe.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like your kind of thing.’

  It was Dave’s turn to shake his head unseen. ‘My boss has been trying to get me on it for a while. I’d been resisting, but then… I had to get out of the flat for a while.’

  ‘Things okay with you and Bridget?’ The concern in Jane’s voice was sincere.

  ‘We’ve decided to split up. Well, she’s decided and I can’t change her mind.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘I’ve not got another woman, if that’s what you think,’ he replied defensively. ‘I know I’ve got form, but it’s not who I am. I know I did it to you with Bridget, but…’ He exhaled deeply as if he were too tired to explain.

  ‘I know. I know,’ said Jane. ‘Let’s not go over old ground. I was a nightmare at the time and, well, what happened happened. So, if not that, what’s gone wrong?’

  ‘We’ve not been getting on that well for a while. I can be too domineering, apparently, and I’m unbearably untidy.’

  ‘She’s got the untidiness right. I don’t remember you being domineering, but maybe I didn’t let you. Oh, Dave, I’m sorry, honestly I am. I only let myself hate you 25% of the time these days and even then I don’t particularly want you to be unhappy.’

  His tone stiffened. ‘We both know I’m big enough and ugly enough to get over it.’

  ‘Probably too ugly to find someone else,’ she teased.

  ‘Probably. Look, Jane. Maybe we could have a drink together sometime? There aren’t many people I can talk to and… who knows? Maybe, and I’m talking in the long term obviously, you and I could be properly reconciled.’ He winced as the words came out and he realised he’d gone too far.

  ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ said Jane, her firmness cut with a vague suggestion of apology.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Dave returned quickly. ‘Sorry, I guess this Bridget thing is messing me up more than I want to admit. Look, I’ll be in touch when I’ve dug around for your father. Now I’d better get back to this presentation. I’m staring at a page headed, “Can the police have a role in the childhood obesity crisis?” Seems obvious to me, but I’ve got to get with the programme.’

  Jane was only half listening as he spoke, an unwelcome question nagging in her mind. Could she, should she, ask Dave to that weekend’s event? Tommy really, really didn’t want to go. It might be kind, but it was surely stupid. Dave stopped talking and the silence forced a decision.

  ‘Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you. And thanks again. Love you. Bye.’

  The last sentiment slipped out. It was no more than an automatic, historic echo. She felt sure Dave would recognise it as such and she didn’t correct herself. She hung up.

  The fire truck

  ‘Sold! Sold to the distinguished-looking gentleman with the black moustache!’

  The auctioneer brought down his gavel with an elaborate flourish and the room erupted into applause punctuated by enthusiastic whoops and cheers. It wasn’t the most expensive lot of the night, but it was the most entertaining. Only one person seemed to miss the joke.

  Sarah had her head in her hands. She swivelled her eyes and gave her husband a look of bemused resentment. ‘It’s an old fire engine, Duff. You’ve bought a stupid bloody fire engine!’

  As well as the black moustache, Duff’s face wore a pink glow generated partly by the excitement of his triumph but also by a rather fine vintage port. Though he’d been passing it round the table, it had largely kept going and back to his own glass.

  ‘I know, my love,’ he beamed. ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’

  ‘What are we going to do with a bloody fire engine? Have you seen the size of the thing? You’re probably not even licensed to drive it.’ Sarah was beginning to calculate practicalities and it was not improving her mood.

  ‘We’ll find someone to drive it. I can use it for promoting the business. We can take it to local fetes and parades, rai
se a bit of dosh for good causes. And my little ginger love…’ A playfully naughty glint appeared in Duff’s eyes. ‘...the best thing is – it even matches your hair!’

  Jane and Tommy glanced at each other, not quite sure how Sarah was going to react. They’d been laughing but both were suddenly wary of a potential explosion. It didn’t come. Sarah just sank back in her chair.

  ‘For the millionth time, you stupid old duffer, my hair is a rich, dark auburn. It’s not, and never has been, ginger. And it’s certainly not fire-engine red!’ Despite herself, a smile was beginning to creep onto her lips. She shook her head in resignation. ‘Oh, pass me some of that port,’ she sighed. ‘What am I going to do with you, Duff?’

  They were at a charity auction organised in aid of research into childhood leukaemia. The great and the good, and the wealthy, of the East Midlands had paid thousands of pounds per table to attend. Some had donated lots to be auctioned, others were happily bidding over the odds to buy them. One property developer, who owned large swathes of Leicester, gave a Harley Davidson motorcycle he’d had customised and bought it straight back again. The auctioneer and master of ceremonies was a young American comedian now based in the UK and a regular on British TV panel shows. He was raunchier in the flesh but managed to work his audience into something of a competitive frenzy. Men and women, but mostly men, keen to prove they were rich and successful enough to spend money like it didn’t matter.

  Duff was largely immune to such drives, but he had dreamed of being a fireman as a boy and the boxy red engine with its wheeled ladder just seemed irresistible. Despite his period of anglicisation, the American comedian insisted on calling it a fire truck and cajoled another like-minded, middle-aged man into driving up the price.

  ‘Are you seriously going to let Tom Selleck over there go home with your fire truck?’

  ‘Okay, Tom. Now it's your call. He doesn’t seem to realise this is your fire truck, man. You know you and that moustache just belong behind that wheel.’

  Jane and Tommy kept their hands firmly down throughout all the bidding. They were out of their league but were enjoying the fun. They were Duff and Sarah’s guests and had been politely told not to ask or worry about the cost of the tickets. Sarah had offered to find a plus-one for her oldest friend, but Jane had resisted the attempt at matchmaking. She also thought it would be an opportunity to thank Tommy for his help on her first case as a professional genealogist. She was relieved he seemed to be enjoying himself. He’d been less than enthusiastic when she’d invited him and she worried she’d browbeaten him into coming. She knew he found social situations difficult but convinced herself it would be good for him. When they’d arrived and he’d sat at the table, looking awkward and uncomfortable amongst the loud and confident people that surrounded him, she’d felt guilty for her arrogance. But Duff and Sarah had taken him under their wings, keeping him involved in the conversation, and he had gradually relaxed.

  Tommy had caught the train up to Nottingham that morning, and Jane had taken him straight out shopping to buy a new bow tie. It was to accompany an inherited black dinner suit that was of uncertain vintage, the sheer weight of the material suggesting it was far from new when his father had acquired it. On close inspection the jacket appeared to have been modified at some stage in its long life to be given a shawl collar. In style it seemed reminiscent of Elvis’s famous gold lamé suit of the late 1950s and Jane wondered if the alteration could possibly date back that far. Fortunately, it still hung well and fitted Tommy’s slim frame like a glove. It later drew an appreciative, ‘Cool tux, dude,’ from the stage when Tommy tried to slip past unnoticed on his way to the toilets. If the wheel of fashion favoured the suit, the same could not be said of the tie it came with, which was deep-purple velvet and as big as a giant butterfly. Jane refused to let Tommy wear it and selected a slim, elegant model in black silk from one of the few remaining gentleman’s outfitters in the city. Tommy was horrified that it required tying by hand – its purple kinsman having a conveniently elasticated strap – but Jane said it had instructions and they’d cope.

  Having sorted out his clothing, Jane then turned her attention to Tommy’s grooming. His rich caramel complexion was still marred by the dark bags beneath his eyes that were testament to his nocturnal, insomniac lifestyle, but there was little she could do about that. His Afro was starting to look a little wild and unkempt, so the next stop was the hairdresser. Tommy tried to object – the reason he’d let his hair grow was because of his aversion to barbers – but Jane overruled. She took him to a shop that specialised in Afro-Caribbean hair and told the stylist to simply tidy it up, taking as little off as she could.

  Back at home and having finally conquered the bow tie, Jane stepped back and admired her handiwork.

  ‘Tommy, you look really, really sharp. You’ll be turning heads tonight. If we weren’t mates I could fancy you myself... But for God’s sake don’t touch the tie!’

  Tommy had been reaching towards the unaccustomed restriction around his neck. He briefly looked into Jane’s face and then his gaze dropped habitually towards the floor.

  ‘You look really good too,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen you in an evening dress before. You’ve got… Well, you look good in it.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s my one and only grown-up frock and it doesn’t come out very often. The colour’s a bit muted for me, but Dave always liked me in it. We’ll probably be the poorest people there tonight, but we won’t be the shabbiest.’

  Several hours later, the last auction lot had been sold, and the American comedian thanked the attendees for their generosity and made a joke about being a cross between Jesse James and Robin Hood, robbing from the 21st-century rich of Nottingham. A five-piece band made their way onto the stage and started playing covers that would have gone down well at any wedding. Sarah was trying not to think about the fire engine and Duff still had a huge smile on his face. Jane had been avoiding the port, but one too many glasses of sauvignon blanc were pushing her to the dizzier side of tipsy. She was relaxed and happy and life felt good.

  ‘The band are really brilliant! Like really tight,’ said Jane. They were far enough back from the stage that she didn’t have to raise her voice too much. ‘A bit like me, I guess.’ She grinned at her own pun. ‘But I think it’s definitely time to dance.’ She turned towards Tommy and gave him a nudge.

  Sarah tapped Jane on the arm to attract her attention and bent towards her. ‘You dance with Duff. I’m not talking to the old fool. I’ll dance with Tommy.’

  Jane shrugged her indifference and leant across to Duff. ‘Duff, darling, your wife says you’ve got to dance with me.’

  Duff tweaked his moustache. ‘I had thought my dancing days were behind me, but how can I refuse such an attractive offer?’

  Duff led Jane onto the now crowded dance floor leaving Sarah alone with Tommy.

  ‘Sorry, Tommy, you probably wanted to dance with Jane,’ said Sarah, bringing her mouth closer to his ear.

  Tommy shook his head. ‘No. I’m not much of a dancer anyway and... it might not be a good idea.’

  Sarah’s tongue was suitably oiled and she probed further than she would have considered polite had she been sober. ‘Jane’s always been a bit blinkered. She doesn’t realise how attractive she is. Maybe you should tell her you’re in love with her.’

  Tommy looked horrified. ‘I’m not—'

  ‘You can see it in the way you talk about her, the way you look at her,’ interjected Sarah, softly squeezing Tommy’s shoulder.

  ’Look, we’re just friends,’ he countered. ‘And that’s for the best. It works well for both of us. I’m not exactly her type. I’m not exactly a macho man like Dave am I?’

  ‘That might be a good thing,’ offered Sarah.

  ‘No. It wouldn’t work. I’m sure you can see it wouldn’t work. This way we talk online, meet up occasionally. I kind of have her even though I don’t. It… It gets me through the night. I don’t know if you can understand.’ Tomm
y picked up his glass but put it straight down again. ‘Sorry, I must be drunk. Blurting all this out. You probably think I’m a total weirdo. There was a girl where I used to work who certainly did.’

  Sarah put her hand on his. ‘You’ve hardly touched a drop and I don't think you’re a weirdo. And maybe you’re right. I suspect Jane is holding out for another Dave’. Sarah stared accusingly at her own glass. ‘Sorry, you probably think I’m a nosey old bitch, putting you on the spot like this. We’ve all had crushes, of one sort or another.’

  Tommy had been reduced to embarrassed silence, so Sarah found herself expanding. ‘When I was at college, there was this guy who all the girls fancied. I danced with him once. Just once. Got too close and it broke my heart. That’s why I didn’t think it was a good idea when Jane asked you. She wouldn’t realise…’

  Tommy smiled his thanks.

  The conversation faltered and they both looked towards the dance floor. Duff and Jane were dancing an impressive jive. On closer inspection, Duff’s portly frame was largely immobile and he contrived to spin Jane around him with an apparent minimum of effort, little flicks of his hands sending her turning one way then the other. Their expressions showed they were both having great fun.

  Sarah tapped Tommy’s hand again. ‘Come on. You’re not in love with me. Let’s show them how it’s done.’

  Tommy still looked unsure, but Sarah’s expression told him refusal was not an option.

  Jane woke the next morning around 10:00 am. She immediately wished she hadn’t as her head pulsed like there was something hard and sharp piercing her temple. She reached for the glass of water she always took to bed, but it wasn’t there. She wondered if having a guest had changed her routine and made her forget, but then realised she had no recollection of getting home so simple intoxication was a more likely explanation.

  She closed her eyes and tried to will herself back to sleep but it was quickly apparent it was a lost cause. Dave had always sworn on taking a dose of paracetamol before crashing out after a heavy night, but Jane never seemed to remember. She lifted herself out of bed, checked her pyjamas were respectable and wandered downstairs to the kitchen in search of hydration and medication.