John Harvey: A Darker Shade of Blue

Kiley took ten and gave her the other ten back.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘Bless you.’

‘Terry,’ Jenny said. ‘What do you think?’

They were walking along the disused railway line that ran east from Crouch Hill towards Finsbury Park, grassed over now to make an urban footpath, the grass itself giving way to mud and gravel, the sides a dumping ground for broken bicycles and bundles of free newspapers no one could be bothered to deliver.

‘I think he’s taken a lot of stress,’ Kiley said. ‘Seen things most of us wouldn’t even like to consider. But if he stays away there’s always the risk of arrest, dishonourable discharge. Even prison. My best guess, he’ll get himself to a doctor before it’s too late, take whatever time he needs, report back with a medical certificate and a cartload of pills. That way, with any luck he might even hang on to his pension.’

‘And if none of that happens?’

A blackbird startled up from the undergrowth to their left and settled again on the branches of a bush a little further along.

‘People go missing all the time.’

‘People with guns?’

Kiley shortened his stride. ‘I’ll go out to Harpenden first, make sure they’re not still there. Terry could have been in touch, doing the same thing.’

‘I met her once,’ Jennie said. ‘Rebecca.’ She made a face. ‘Sour as four-day-old milk.’

Kiley grinned. They walked on, saying little, just comfortable enough in each other’s company without feeling really at ease, uncertain how far to keep walking, when to stop and turn back.

The house was to the north of the town, take a left past the golf club and keep on going; find yourself in Batford, you’ve gone too far. Of course, he could have done the whole thing on the phone, but in these days of so much cold calling, conversations out of the blue were less than welcome. And Kiley was attuned to sniffing around; accustomed, where possible, to seeing the whites of their eyes. How else could you hope to tell if people were lying?

The house sat back, smug, behind a few straggly poplars and a lawn with too much moss in it for its own good. A mud-splashed four-wheel drive sat off to one side, the space in front of the double garage taken up by a fair-sized boat secured to a trailer. How far in God’s name, Kiley wondered, were they from the sea?

The doorbell played something that sounded to Kiley as if it might be by Puccini, but if he were expecting the door itself to be opened by a Filipino maid in a starched uniform or even a grim-faced au pair he was mistaken. The woman appraising him was clearly the lady of the house herself, a fit-looking fiftyish with a fine tan and her hair swept up into what Kiley thought might be called a French roll — or was that twist? She was wearing cream trousers, snug at the hips, and a grey marl sweater with a high collar. There were rings on most of her fingers.

‘Mr Kiley?’

Kiley nodded.

‘You’re very prompt.’

If he were a dog, Kiley thought, she would be offering him a little treat for being good. Instead she held out her hand.

‘Christina Hadfield.’

Beneath the smoothness of her skin, her grip was sure and firm.

‘Please come in. I’m afraid my husband’s not here. Some business or other.’

As he followed her through a square hallway busy with Barbour jackets, green Wellingtons and walking boots, the lines from one of his favourite Mose Allison songs came to mind, something about telling a woman’s wealth from the way she walks.

The room they went into sported two oversized settees and a small convention of easy chairs and you could have slotted in most of Mary Anderson’s flat with space to spare. High windows looked out into the garden, where someone, out of sight, was whistling softly as he — or she — tidied away the leaves. Presumably not Mr H.

Photographs of the two grandchildren, more recent than those on Mary Anderson’s wall, stood, silver-framed, on the closed lid of a small piano.

‘They’re adorable,’ she said, following his stare. ‘Perfectly sweet. And well behaved. Which is more than you can say for the majority of children nowadays.’ She pursed her lips together. ‘Discipline in our society, I’m afraid, has become a dirty word.’

‘How long did they stay?’ Kiley asked.

‘A little over a week. Long enough to help undress the tree, take down the decorations.’ Christina Hadfield smiled. ‘Twelfth Night. Another old tradition gone begging.’

‘Terry, their father, he was home on leave while they were here.’

‘If you say so.’

‘He didn’t make any kind of contact?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘No phone calls, no-’

‘He knows better than to do that after what happened.’

‘What did happen?’

‘When Rebecca first said she was leaving him he refused to believe her. And then when he did, he became violent.’

‘He hit her?’

‘He threatened to. Threatened her and the children with all manner of things. She called in the police.’

‘He was back in England then, when she told him?’

‘My daughter is not a coward, Mr Kiley, whatever else. Foolish, I grant you. Slow to acknowledge her mistakes.’ Reaching down towards the low table beside her chair, she offered Kiley a cigarette and when he shook his head, lit one for herself, holding down the smoke before letting it drift up towards the ceiling. ‘What possessed her to marry that man I was always at a loss to understand, and unfortunately, circumstances proved my reservations correct. It was a mismatch from the start. And a shame it took the best part of four years in non-commissioned quarters — bad plumbing and condensation streaming down the walls — to bring her to her senses.’

That’s why she left him? For a better class of accommodation?’

Christina Hadfield’s mouth tightened. ‘She left him because she wanted a better life for her children. As any mother would.’

‘His children, too, surely?’

‘Is that what you’re here for? To be his apologist? To plead his cause?’

‘I explained when I called-’

‘What you gave me to understand on the telephone was that the unfortunate man was having some kind of a breakdown. To the extent that he might do himself some harm.’

‘I think it’s possible. I’d like to find him before anything like that happens.’

‘In this, you’re acting for his mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor woman.’ Smoke drifted from the corners of her mouth. ‘After speaking to you, I telephoned Rebecca. As I suspected she’s heard nothing from him. Certainly not recently.’

‘I see.’ Kiley got to his feet. Whoever had been whistling while they worked outside had fallen silent. Christina Hadfield’s gaze was unwavering. What must it be like, Kiley thought, to entertain so little doubt? He took a card from his pocket and set it on the table. ‘Should Terry get in touch or should your daughter hear from him… Unlikely as that might be.’

No call to shake hands again at the door. She stood for a few moments, arms folded, watching him go, making good and sure he left the premises.

Was it the fact that his grandfather — his father’s father — had been an engine driver that left Kiley so susceptible to trains? The old man — that was how he had always seemed to Kiley, though he could not have been a good deal older than Kiley himself was now — had worked on the old London and Midland Railway, the LMS, and, later, the LNER. Express trains to Leeds and Newcastle, smuts forever blackening his face and hair. Kiley could see him, home at the end of a lengthy shift, standing by the range in their small kitchen, sipping Camp coffee from the saucer. Rarely speaking.

Now, Kiley, who didn’t own a car, and hired one from the local pay-as-you-go schemes when necessary, travelled by train whenever possible. A window seat in the quiet coach, a book to read, his CD Walkman turned low.