Where Memories Lie Read Free Page B

Terence Billings, had kept himself to himself, getting by, they supposed, on his pension.
    “What was it?” Gavin had asked his team when they’d finished their report and retired to the pub nearest the station, squeezing into the corner table with foaming pints. “What do you suppose was the final straw?”
    “Probably couldn’t get fags at the corner shop,” said PC Will Collins, shaking his head.
    “Maybe his cat died,” offered Gavin’s sergeant, John Rogers, only half in jest. All of them had seen the most trivial things push people over the edge into despair. And all of them had served on the front—all knew the man in the chair could just as easily have been them, and it was this bond, shared but unspoken, that kept them there, smoking and drinking too much beer, until long after they should have been home.
    “What is it, Gav? Are you all right?” Linda’s voice hovered between censure and concern.
    He thought of her as he’d first met her, how he’d loved her for her piss-and-vinegar pluck. He’d thought she could take on anything, but she hadn’t signed on to be a policeman’s wife, and it had brought her to this—a sharp-faced shadow of that long-ago girl.
    And the children—was he the one at fault? Had he failed them all? And if so, what had he accomplished by it? He’d certainly done nothing to make life better for the man in the chair today, or others like him.
    “Gav? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His wife came to him and lifted her hand, brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheek.
    The gesture was so unexpected, the gentleness of it so long forgotten, that he felt tears spring to his eyes. He closed his hand over hers. The pressure of his grip brought her body lightly against his, her weight delicate and warm. Swallowing, he whispered, “I’m sorry—I’ve made a mess of things—I—”
    The clang of the phone made them jerk apart, like guilty teenagers. Their eyes met for a moment, then, unable to resist, he glanced towards the telephone. It sat like a black beast on the table at the end of the hall, pulsing with insistent sound.
    “I suppose I should get that,” he said.
    “You always do,” answered his wife, slipping her hand from his.
     
    Gavin walked down Tite Street towards the river from the flat in Tedworth Square, angling into Royal Hospital Road, stopping for a moment as he reached the Embankment to glance west at the sparkling outline of the Albert Bridge framed against an orange-and-purple-streaked sky. A year ago the bridge had been draped with electric lights for the Festival of Britain, and the sight still made his breath catch in his throat. Airy and insubstantial, it added to the odd sense of disconnectedness he’d felt since leaving the flat.
    He’d protested, of course, but the duty sergeant at Chelsea Station had insisted he was the nearest ranking CID officer available, and Gavin had sighed and acquiesced.
    Now he wondered if he had left a part of himself behind, the self that might have stayed and caressed his wife. Had he seen a glimmer of understanding in her eyes as she watched him go? Or had he taken the wrong turning at an irrevocable fork?
    Nonsense, that was; utter rubbish. He had a job to do. He shook himself and, turning away, headed east into the gathering darkness.
    The constable, a dark-uniformed silhouette, was waiting near the gate that led into a heavily wooded garden at the end of Cheyne Walk. “Inspector Hoxley.”
    Gavin recognized him as he spoke, a young constable named Simms, and the tightness in the man’s voice made the hair rise on Gavin’s neck. This was more than a wino sleeping it off in the park. “Anyone else here yet?” he asked.
    “No, sir. I didn’t like to leave it—him—sir, but I was afraid you wouldn’t see me if I didn’t wait near the gates.”
    “All right, then, Simms, let’s see what you’ve found.”
    He followed the flickering light of Simms’s torch as the constable picked his way