John Harvey - Cold Light

“You haven’t got a phone in your car?”

“Afraid not.”

Neither, in this car, did she.

“Look,” Lynn said, winding down the window a little farther. “It was good of you to stop, but, really, I’ll be all right now.”

He smiled and began to back slowly away. Lynn took a deep breath and got out into the rain. The rear of the car seemed to have collided with a pile of gravel as it left the road, then spun forward into the gate. Somewhere, out in the semi-dark, were the shapes of cattle, hedges converging. Lynn pulled up her collar and squatted near the front wheel. The metal of the wing had been forced back sharp against the tire and the tire was flat. The headlight was a tangle of silvered metal and broken glass. Maybe she could pull the metal out and change the wheel, but even then she doubted if she’d get far.

“Why don’t you let me give you a lift?” He had come back and was standing back beyond her left shoulder, looking on. The wind had relented a little but not much. “Just as far as the nearest garage.”

Lynn shook her head; she wasn’t about to compound one stupidity with another.

“There’s one six or seven miles down the road. I think it’s open twenty-four hours.”

Lynn looked directly at his face, forcing herself to make judgments. In the circumstances, she thought, what else was she going to do? Walk and risk getting sideswiped by a passing car? Stick out her thumb and hope for the best?

“All right,” she said. “Just as far as the garage. Thanks.” Rain brushing his face, he smiled. “Fine.”

Lynn retrieved her handbag, locked the offside door, and, hurrying to the man’s car, got into the back seat.

“Michael,” he said over his shoulder. “Michael Best. My friends call me Pat.”

Lynn smiled, more of a grimace than a smile. “Lynn Kellogg, it was good of you to stop. Really.”

“Brownie points up there, I suspect,” smiling back at her, nodding towards the roof of the car. “Few good ones to set against the bad.”

Clicking on the indicator, he waited until there was a clear gap before swinging out into the traffic, not wishing to take unnecessary chances now.

The signs were not good. Michael turned into the forecourt and parked behind the pumps, but the main lights inside the adjoining building stubbornly refused to come on. Only the safety light burned, illuminating faintly the usual collection of motoring maps and engine oils, packaged food and confectionery, on sale audio cassettes by forgotten groups, and a special offer in troll dolls with purple hair.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I could have sworn this place stayed open all night.”

“Not to worry,” Lynn said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I travel this road quite a lot, though. I should know.”

“Me, too. I had half an idea you were right.”

“Perhaps it closes at twelve?”

“Perhaps.”

Lynn felt a little stupid now, sitting in the back the way she had. There was this man, perfectly nice, out of his way to help her, and there she was sitting in the back like Lady Muck.

“So what …?”

“What …?”

Their words collided and simultaneously they laughed.

“Had I best run you back to your car, then?” Michael asked.

“Looks like it.”

“Unless …”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you’re heading for Derby.”

“Nottingham?”

“Fine.”

Lynn leaned back in her seat. “Thanks,” she said.

It was warm in the car, cocooned from the cold and rain. For a time, Michael chatted about this and that, his words half lost in the swish of other wheels, the rhythmic beat of the wipers arcing their way across the windscreen. Ten years ago he had left a steady job, started a small business of his own, following a trend; two years back it had gone bust, nothing spectacular about that. Now he was picking himself up, starting from scratch: working for a stationery suppliers, there in the East Midlands, East Anglia, glorified rep. He laughed. “If you’re ever in the market for a gross of manila envelopes or a few hundred meters of bubble wrap, I’m your man.”

As they reached the outskirts of the city, sliding between pools of orange light, the rain eased, the wind dropped. Life shone, dull, through the upstairs nets of suburban villas as they approached the Trent.

“Whereabouts?” Michael asked. They were slowing past the cricket ground, the last customers leaving the fast-food places opposite with kebabs or cod and chips.

“Anywhere in the center’s fine.”

“The square?”

“You could drop me off in Hockley. The bottom of Goose Gate, somewhere round there.”

“Sure.”

Shifting left through the lanes as they went down the dip past the bowling alley, he drew into the curb below Aloysius House. A small group of men stood close against the wall, a bottle of cider passing back and forth between them.

“Thanks,” Lynn said, as Michael pulled on the hand brake. “You’ve been really great.”

“It was nothing.”

“If it weren’t for you, I’d still be out there now, probably. Condemned to spend a night on the A52.”

“Oh, well …”

Lynn shifted across the seat to get out. “Goodnight.”

“I don’t suppose …”

She looked at him.

“No, it’s all right.”

“What?”

“It’s late, I know, but I don’t suppose you’d have time for a cup of coffee or something? What d’you say?”

Lynn’s hand was on the door and the door was opening and she knew the last thing she wanted to do, right then, was walk up that street and turn the four corners that would take her to her flat, walk inside, and see her reflection in the mirror staring back.

“Okay,” she said. “But it’ll have to be quick.”

The all-night cafe was near the site of the old indoor market, opposite what had once been the bus station and was now a car park and The World of Leather. The only other customers were taxi drivers, a couple, who from the look of their clothes were on their way to Michael Isaac’s night club up the street, and a woman in a plaid coat who sang softly to herself as she made patterns on the table with the sugar.

They ordered coffee and Michael a sausage cob, which, when it arrived, made Lynn look so envious, he broke off a healthy piece and insisted she eat it.

“I’m in the police,” she said. The first cups of coffee had been finished for some time and they were starting on their second.

He showed little in the way of surprise. “What branch? I mean, what kind of thing?” His eyes were smiling; in truth, they had rarely stopped smiling the past half hour. “You have a uniform or what?”

“God!” she said and laughed.

“What?”

“Why is it that’s always the first thing men ask?”

“Is it?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Well, do you?”

Lynn shook her head. “I’m a detective. Plain clothes.”

“Is that so?” He looked impressed. “And what do you detect?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Even murder?”

“Yes,” she said. “Even murder.”

The couple across from them were laughing, well-bred voices as out of place as good china; the girl was wearing a long button-through skirt in what might have been silk and it lay open along most of her thigh. From time to time, carelessly, the young man stroked her with his hand. They were probably nineteen.

“What’s the matter?” Michael said.

Lynn realized she had started crying. “It’s nothing,” she said, unable to stop. A couple of the cabbies were looking round.

“It’ll be the accident,” Michael said. “Delayed reaction. You know, the shock.”

Lynn sniffed and shook her head. “I was crying when it happened. That’s what did it.”