Jackie Chandler

1

IN THE LAST week, Stuart Finlay had returned to his five-a-day habit, and gone from a lifetime of being teetotal to drinking whisky every night – multiple whiskies. His father’s drink. Fin couldn’t stand the taste of it and detested the smell of it. Growing up, that smell had been a warning. Now he was bathing in it but wasn’t ready to stop. It numbed his brain. He probably still dreamed – he couldn’t stop that – but the memory of it no longer haunted him when he woke.

There were drawbacks, though. Like how it took a few seconds longer than it should have to focus on the alarm clock when he woke. Three am. He rubbed his hands over his face. This past week, he’d slept no more than four hours a night. Some people believed they could survive and function adequately on that. Fin was not one of them. Alcohol was a stimulator - he was getting what he deserved - but it was better than facing the nightmares and the guilt that accompanied them.

Gail lay tightly cuddled up under the duvet, her back to him. There was an unnatural stillness to her, as though she were trying not to breathe. She wasn’t asleep. That neat little position was how she thought she slept. The reality was she expanded once her head hit the pillow, made snow angels where there wasn’t any snow, and became this monster version of the woman he loved. And she snored.

She didn’t roll over.

It was strange to think this with her lying next to him, but he missed her. He needed her. She didn’t need him though, not like this. Not until he’d made himself whole again. Willing to continue the pretence, Fin slipped out of bed as though he were trying not to wake her. He told himself it was better that way.

Worryingly, a small part of him believed it.

Barefooted, but wearing yesterday’s jeans, he padded downstairs to his office. He didn’t bother to put on a t-shirt.

They’d moved into the house a few weeks ago. As Fin’s hours were more flexible than Gail’s nine-to-five, he’d unpacked most of the boxes during the day and tidied their contents away into whatever furniture they had available. A week ago, filled with grief, Fin had stopped unpacking boxes, but there wasn’t a piece of cardboard left in the house. Everything was tidied away and spotless. That wasn’t good. When he was there and Gail was upset, they argued. When he wasn’t there, and she was upset, she cleaned and tidied.

This past week, he’d been there. They hadn’t argued. And now the house was immaculate.

The one room she didn’t go into was his office. The small mess within was somehow comforting.

Fin strapped on the gloves and eyed the bag in front of him. Gail had bought it for him as a birthday present the month before. He’d never had a loved one invest in sports equipment for his birthday, but his recent whisky and cigarette dalliances aside, he was in good shape, so he’d tried not to take it personally.

Fin swung his arms back and forth, shrugged his shoulders and, aware of how pathetic that warm-up was, took his first swing.

Being careful to keep his wrists straight, he started with a few gentle jabs. The bag was solid. He knew this from the effort it had taken to hang the thing from the ceiling. It barely moved from his gentle provocation. He then started with the classic one-two, left, right, occasionally attacking with an uppercut, progressing on to a series of jabs. His feet constantly moving, he felt the burn in the muscles of his arms and shoulders within the first five minutes. Thanks to the cigarettes, his lungs felt as though they’d been attacked by a cheese grater. He was breathing hard within the first eight minutes. Yeah, that was bad.

The chains creaked above as the bag swung with the force of his punches. Fin focussed his energy on the satisfying thud of his gloves on impact. He moved to the left and delivered a succession of quick jabs.

He was using the bag more and more, particularly this past week since… He threw his weight into it, increasing the violence of his hits, targeting imaginary ribs — left, right, left, right. Two jabs to the imaginary chin.

Michael’s face came to mind, and the intensity behind Fin’s punches escalated. Michael had been put in an impossible situation and had responded the only way he could have, but a week ago, Fin’s friend died because of it. Fin may understand Michael’s position, but he couldn’t forgive him. Not yet.

A right hook, a kick to the left, followed by a jab. The anger wouldn’t abate, so he lost himself in the punching bag, the ache in his shoulders, the side-to-side movement of his feet, and the whisky. He tried not to think about anything else.

Two lefts, a kick, and Fin used his momentum to duck and turn.

Gail stood in the doorway, arms folded, leaning against the jamb.

Instantly yanked from his anger at Michael, Fin lowered his fists. He didn’t know how long she’d been standing there.

‘Are you coming back to bed?’ She didn’t enter the room.

‘No, love, I’m up now.’ He didn’t ask if he’d woken her. He was only willing to stretch the pretence so far.

‘It’s only half three.’

And he hated that she was awake. ‘I won’t sleep.’ He hadn’t yet reached that level of exhaustion that enabled the tension to ease and the anger to fade, even if for only a few short hours.

‘You should still rest.’

The last thing he needed was time in bed with nothing but his thoughts. He’d started drinking specifically to avoid that.

‘Are you OK, Fin?’ She looked as though she wanted to come closer but held her position by the door. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he was glad.

‘I’m fine, love.’ There was no benefit in admitting he wasn’t.

‘Perhaps later we could—’

‘I’m driving to Guildford later.’

She shifted her weight. ‘Work?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t know you were taking new cases again.’ There was an edge to her tone.

Being a private investigator was dangerous – at least, it was the way he did it. He had some skills and took on a lot of work in the seedier areas of Crawley that other investigators passed on, but he’d almost died on this last job, and he’d killed others to protect those he loved.

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I just…’ He didn’t have a choice, and he didn’t want to explain why.

Gail nodded a weak acceptance rather than challenge him. He hated that, too.

‘I didn’t realise you were ready to work, that’s all,’ she said.

He wasn’t.

‘Is that where you grew up?’ Her tone was cautious, like she was prodding a wasp’s nest.

‘I won’t be gone long.’ He threw another punch, hoping it would signal the end of the conversation. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to go back to Guildford, didn’t want the job. But the decision wasn’t his. He had his own company and complete autonomy, but somehow, it didn’t always work out that way. Two rights, a jab to the left.

‘It might help, you know, to be busy.’ She’d raised her voice to speak over the sound of his fist against leather and the grind of the chains above. ‘It might take your mind off things.’

Right. Left. Right. Kick.

‘Are you going to see your dad?’

Fin punched the bag with everything he had. Turning to face her, he willed her to go back to bed and leave him alone. He wouldn’t talk about his father with her. Never had. He wouldn’t marry her while it remained a secret, so the time would soon come when he’d have to admit what sort of man’s blood flowed through his veins, but that time wasn’t now.

‘I’m just going to help a friend.’ He turned back to the bag. One-two followed by an uppercut as the bag swung back.

Gail remained in the doorway as Fin lashed out. Left, right, left, right, and he kept on the balls of his feet. He didn’t turn to her, and she didn’t say anything else. It was as though they were still lying in bed, her pretending to sleep, him letting her pretend.

When she finally retreated into the gloom of the house, the need to hit the bag disappeared with her. He stopped, his hands still raised but rapidly losing height. He loved Gail. The wedding was only a few months away, but he wasn’t sure he deserved her anymore. It was possible she no longer wanted to marry him, anyway. Could he even marry her, knowing what he now knew? It was all so messed up. Until he could sort himself out, this distance between them shielded her from his guilt and grief. It was the best he could do for her.

He rested his forehead against the bag, his arms around it, holding it in place.

‘Shit.’ He stepped back and threw three hard punches in quick succession.

He had just over six hours before he had to meet Michael at George’s pub.

Insomnia was a bitch.

2

FIN SHOULDERED OPEN the door to find Michael Cahill leaning back against the bar. They’d arranged to meet at ten. Michael was early.

Fin approached and promptly found a Coke placed on the bar for him. He wanted a whisky. George, the bartender, and his best friend, would know he wanted a whisky. It was the only thing he’d drunk all week. It was the only thing that numbed the pain, but also somehow amplified it in a way Fin felt he deserved. He could reject the Coke and order the whisky but he had to drive, he was pretty sure he’d promised to listen to what Michael had to say this morning, and George wouldn’t comply. George didn’t operate in the customer-is-always-right camp. When George didn’t want to discuss something, it didn’t get discussed. It was just his way. Take the whole whisky/Coke dilemma. That wouldn’t get discussed, either.

Last night, George admitted to having watered down Fin’s drinks. Fin should probably be grateful to his best friend for that. He wasn’t. There was a reason he was drinking, a reason he’d chosen his father’s drink. He was damned if he knew what that reason was, but it was there. It had to be.

‘Good morning.’ Michael’s tone held the practised, sombre tone of the trained psychologist that he was.

Fin picked up his Coke and took a swig.

‘You look like shit,’ Michael said, now sounding less like a psychologist.

George grunted his agreement.

‘Are you getting much sleep?’

Fin ran a hand through his hair.

‘Are you dreaming?’

‘Stay out of my head, Michael,’ Fin warned.

Michael nodded. ‘Shall we get a table?’

Fin followed him over to the corner.

‘How much do you remember of our conversation last night?’ Michael rolled his glass gently between his two hands. It was a tall drink. Clear liquid. Probably water.

Fin had been on his fourth whisky when Michael showed up in the pub last night. For a teetotaller, that was a lot. Even watered down, it was a lot. They’d argued. Fin remembered thinking he’d won that battle. Neither of them had any marks on their faces this morning though, so his alcohol-clouded memory might be confusing what he wanted to happen with what had actually happened.

‘I remember that after eight years, you’ve finally decided to find your sister,’ Fin said. ‘And that you want my help to do it. I remember I don’t much like you right now. I remember asking you to help a girl, a friend of mine, and you betrayed her.’ Again, not really Michael’s fault. Fin knew that, but he didn’t feel like acknowledging it.

‘I’m not here for your forgiveness.’

‘Good.’

‘And I don’t expect you to forget.’

‘Then you’re in luck.’

‘But Janet specifically asked for you.’

Fin felt that familiar tension creep into his shoulders.

‘I told you about the phone call with Steffi,’ Michael said.

‘You told me you blew her off.’ Again, that wasn’t entirely fair. Steffi had phoned sounding upset. It was her first call to anyone in the family since she disappeared eight years ago. Fin knew Michael would have given anything to take that call, but he was being threatened at the time and hung up on Steffi in order to protect her from what had been going on in his own life. It was the best thing he could have done. Fin would have done the same. It was possible Fin was being deliberately antagonistic by not mentioning that part. He didn’t feel that bad about it, either.

‘After that, she severed all communication,’ Michael said. ‘Then, a couple of days ago, she sent a text.’ He got out his phone, twiddled with it for a few seconds, and handed it over.

‘I know you know something, Michael. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to disappoint any of you. But whatever you think you know, you can’t act on. It could be dangerous for everyone. Protect the family. That’s what you’re good at. They need you. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t come back. I won’t say anything, I promise. I’ll stay away. I swear to you. I would never put your family in danger. Whatever you may think, I love you all and always will. Goodbye.’

Fin looked up at Michael and then read it again.

‘Something made her phone that day,’ Michael said. ‘I know I may have upset her, but she was already in tears before I even spoke. Something else is going on.’

Fin had to agree. ‘What is she talking about? What do you know?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Nothing. I know nothing. I don’t know where she gets that idea from.’

‘Did you warn her somehow? Did you tell her to stay away?’

‘I barely said anything to her.’

Fin read the message again. It made no sense. Michael had no reason to lie. He’d be an idiot to withhold anything, and Michael wasn’t an idiot. Well, not normally. At least, not over this.

‘She thinks you’re going to do something,’ Fin said. ‘What does she think you’re going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘I don’t know exactly. She was upset and said she needed to talk, but I couldn’t. She said she still needed me, that she was still part of the family. I can’t remember fully. God, if I could have spoken with her, you know I would have.’

Fin knew. ‘Forward me that message.’

A pause, then, ‘What are you going to do with it?’

Oh, man. ‘Has Janet seen this?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus, Michael.’ Fin got up and walked to the bar, ordering himself another Coke. For the first time in a week, he didn’t want a whisky, watered down or not. He needed a clear head.

Michael joined him. ‘Will you find her and bring her home?’

‘You can’t control people like this, Michael. Janet’s her mother. She deserves to know.’

‘Will you find Steffi?’

‘What about the police? Have they seen that message?’

‘They’ll ask too many questions. The phone call is bound to come up, and I can’t explain why I hung up on her.’

No, he couldn’t.

‘Will you come with me to Guildford?’ Michael pushed.

Why did he have to phrase it like that? ‘I’m not… I’ll come. I’ll hear Janet out, if that’s what you want. I’ll even vet the local detectives. Find someone good for you.’

‘Janet wants you.’

Fin took a drink and caught George’s disapproving scowl at the same time. He didn’t know what particular part of this George was disapproving of. There were too many options.

‘You owe her, Fin. You know you do.’

‘Fuck off, Michael. You don’t have to remind me of that. Look, she won’t lose out. I’ll foot the bill myself.’

‘It’s not the money.’

That wasn’t true, but Fin didn’t say it. He took another gulp of Coke. In truth, he wanted to be the one to help her. This woman… At any time in the past sixteen years, she could have called on him, and he would have come without hesitation. Why would she ask for him now when he was… broken? ‘If I get involved in this, she knows about that text.’

‘It’ll only worry her,’ Michael said.

‘If I go…’ realistically, he knew he would. ‘If I agree to this, I’m going to be working for her, Michael, not you. My loyalty is going to be to her, not you. You got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Send me the text.’

Michael hesitated, but he got out his phone. Fin felt the vibration in his pocket when the message came in.

‘I’ll assess the situation when I’m there,’ Fin said. He wanted to finish the drink and flood his system with caffeine before he got on the motorway. He’d managed another hour’s sleep after Gail had gone to work, but that was it. It wasn’t enough.

‘Are you gonnae help this woman?’ George asked once Michael had left.

Fin nodded. How could he not?

‘If yer working again, you dinnae need this, this…’ George’s expression for the bottle of whisky in his hand gradually changed from disgust to genuine affection. ‘This nectar of the earth. This water of life.’ He stopped short of kissing the bottle.

‘If it’s so glorious, how come you’ve been watering it down?’

‘It wer a bloody insult! That’s why I still charged you full price.’

‘So, if I order another whisky when I get back?’

‘You’ll no’ drink in here again.’