think.’
Cathy drove Faraday home. On the face of it, he’d done a good day’s work. A murder solved, some priceless intelligence on its way to the Drugs Squad, and every prospect of an informant at the very heart of one of the city’s major drug rings. In anyone’s book, that was a result. But it felt very different.
‘Come in for a drink.’
Cathy followed Faraday into the house. She could count the number of times this had happened on the fingers of one hand. Of all the detectives on the division, she liked to think that she was by far the closest to Faraday, but the kinship they shared had rarely extended to anything remotely social.
The big lounge occupied most of the ground floor. Framed photographs, most of them black and white, hung on the walls. Faraday waved vaguely in the direction of the kitchen and told Cathy to help herself.
‘There’s Scotch and all sorts,’ he said. ‘Open a bottle of wine if you’d prefer.’
It was a single man’s kitchen, organised, indexed, neat. Faraday stored spaghetti in tall glass jars and had a blown-up copy of the tide table Blu-Tacked to the fridge. Cathy found the Scotch and poured half a tumbler for Faraday before making a coffee for herself. By the time she got back to the sitting room, Faraday was slumped in his favourite armchair, his body half-turned towards the darkness beyond the tall glass sliding doors.
The ice clinked in the glass when she gave it to him. His gloom was almost visible, a heavy aura that a child would colour black in a picture book.
‘It’s J-J, isn’t it?’
Faraday didn’t answer. He loved this house, perched on the edge of the harbour. He loved its silence, and its space, and the way it had looked after them both for the entire span of the boy’s life. The house, like Joe-Junior, had been a fixed point in an ever more chaotic world. The one had gone with the other. Until last week.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Because you miss him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because he’s never been away before.’
Faraday nodded, taking a pull at the Scotch, closing his eyes for a moment as it burned its way towards his belly. Once again, he felt like Scott Spellar. Nowhere to turn. No place left to go.
‘Gone is a good word,’ he said slowly, ‘and you know what? I don’t think he’ll ever come back.’
‘You told me he had a return ticket.’
‘He does. He’s due back next week. I’m meeting him off the ferry. But it won’t be the same. I know it won’t.’
‘How can you say that?’
Faraday shot her a glance. She was standing beneath a line of Janna’s framed photographs, nursing a cup of black coffee, ever solid, ever sensible. If it hadn’t been the police force, Faraday thought, she’d have made a brilliant community nurse.
Cathy asked the question again, not bothering to hide her impatience. Faraday was behaving like a child and she wanted him to know it.
He studied her a moment, weighing some inner decision, then got to his feet and went upstairs. When he came back he was carrying a sheet of paper.
‘This came last night,’ he said woodenly. ‘He took his laptop with him.’
Cathy’s head bent briefly to the paper.
‘He’s twenty-two for God’s sake,’ she said, looking up again. ‘He’s allowed to fall in love.’
‘He’s deaf, Cath. Deaf kids never grow up.’
‘Who says?’
‘I do. And twenty-two years alone with him tells me I know the lad, believe me.’
Cathy nodded, watching Faraday empty the tumbler. She was tempted to sympathise, to offer him the comfort he undoubtedly needed, but she knew the truth was long overdue.
‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ she said lightly.
‘What?’
‘The twenty-two years. That tells me you don’t want him to grow up.’
Cathy was home by midnight. She and her husband lived in a modern house at Portchester, fifteen minutes’ drive from the top of the island. She parked her Escort in the carport, wondering what had happened to Pete. This morning he’d
Cathy drove Faraday home. On the face of it, he’d done a good day’s work. A murder solved, some priceless intelligence on its way to the Drugs Squad, and every prospect of an informant at the very heart of one of the city’s major drug rings. In anyone’s book, that was a result. But it felt very different.
‘Come in for a drink.’
Cathy followed Faraday into the house. She could count the number of times this had happened on the fingers of one hand. Of all the detectives on the division, she liked to think that she was by far the closest to Faraday, but the kinship they shared had rarely extended to anything remotely social.
The big lounge occupied most of the ground floor. Framed photographs, most of them black and white, hung on the walls. Faraday waved vaguely in the direction of the kitchen and told Cathy to help herself.
‘There’s Scotch and all sorts,’ he said. ‘Open a bottle of wine if you’d prefer.’
It was a single man’s kitchen, organised, indexed, neat. Faraday stored spaghetti in tall glass jars and had a blown-up copy of the tide table Blu-Tacked to the fridge. Cathy found the Scotch and poured half a tumbler for Faraday before making a coffee for herself. By the time she got back to the sitting room, Faraday was slumped in his favourite armchair, his body half-turned towards the darkness beyond the tall glass sliding doors.
The ice clinked in the glass when she gave it to him. His gloom was almost visible, a heavy aura that a child would colour black in a picture book.
‘It’s J-J, isn’t it?’
Faraday didn’t answer. He loved this house, perched on the edge of the harbour. He loved its silence, and its space, and the way it had looked after them both for the entire span of the boy’s life. The house, like Joe-Junior, had been a fixed point in an ever more chaotic world. The one had gone with the other. Until last week.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Because you miss him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because he’s never been away before.’
Faraday nodded, taking a pull at the Scotch, closing his eyes for a moment as it burned its way towards his belly. Once again, he felt like Scott Spellar. Nowhere to turn. No place left to go.
‘Gone is a good word,’ he said slowly, ‘and you know what? I don’t think he’ll ever come back.’
‘You told me he had a return ticket.’
‘He does. He’s due back next week. I’m meeting him off the ferry. But it won’t be the same. I know it won’t.’
‘How can you say that?’
Faraday shot her a glance. She was standing beneath a line of Janna’s framed photographs, nursing a cup of black coffee, ever solid, ever sensible. If it hadn’t been the police force, Faraday thought, she’d have made a brilliant community nurse.
Cathy asked the question again, not bothering to hide her impatience. Faraday was behaving like a child and she wanted him to know it.
He studied her a moment, weighing some inner decision, then got to his feet and went upstairs. When he came back he was carrying a sheet of paper.
‘This came last night,’ he said woodenly. ‘He took his laptop with him.’
Cathy’s head bent briefly to the paper.
‘He’s twenty-two for God’s sake,’ she said, looking up again. ‘He’s allowed to fall in love.’
‘He’s deaf, Cath. Deaf kids never grow up.’
‘Who says?’
‘I do. And twenty-two years alone with him tells me I know the lad, believe me.’
Cathy nodded, watching Faraday empty the tumbler. She was tempted to sympathise, to offer him the comfort he undoubtedly needed, but she knew the truth was long overdue.
‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ she said lightly.
‘What?’
‘The twenty-two years. That tells me you don’t want him to grow up.’
Cathy was home by midnight. She and her husband lived in a modern house at Portchester, fifteen minutes’ drive from the top of the island. She parked her Escort in the carport, wondering what had happened to Pete. This morning he’d
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