Читать книгу Heads I Win Tails You Lose - Lynne Fox - Страница 9

CHAPTER 4

It’s on the local news. I nearly don’t hear it as I’m in the kitchen preparing dinner.

‘The police have today announced that the body of the man found in Melsham Park two weeks ago is that of Edward Howden.’

I almost miss catching the savoury pancake I’d just tossed ceiling-ward. Howden! Wasn’t that the name in the front of the book in Barry’s room? I’m sure it was. I wander through into the lounge, pancake pan in hand, and stand transfixed before the TV.

‘Originally from Sheffield, he was convicted of the involuntary manslaughter of his wife due to his alcohol addiction. Howden served three years in prison before being released on condition he attended a rehabilitation programme.’

A photograph is splashed across the screen. My God, I would never have recognised him. The tramp was a parody of the man in the photo. I shudder at what an addiction to alcohol can do as I reach for the glass I’d left on the coffee table and take another sip.

The screen switches to outside Endover Police Station and there he is, Detective Chief Inspector Munroe, preening before the cameras.

‘Unfortunately, it seems Howden didn’t continue his attendance at the rehabilitation clinic and all contact with him was lost until his body was discovered in our local park.’

‘Is it correct, Chief Inspector, that Howden has been seen loitering near West Park College?’

‘Yes, that’s correct. Our investigations are ongoing in that respect and we’re currently attempting to locate his next-of-kin.’

‘Any leads as to his assailant?’

‘We’re following up several lines of enquiry and would ask anyone who may have seen him in and around the local area to get in touch with us.’

‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’

I press the ‘Off’ button, deliberately forcing the news out of my mind to concentrate on preparing my meal. If I don’t stay focused I’ll end up with half of my pancakes on the kitchen floor.

Thinking things through after I’ve eaten, I ponder the likely scenario that Barry’s real surname is Howden and if the Edward Howden on the news is a relation, then it’s not surprising that Barry would want to change his name. I recall the entry in his personnel file stating foster parents as his next of kin and it seems a fair assumption that Mason is their name that he has taken. Could Edward Howden be Barry’s father? If so, it might explain the assault; God knows, he’d have reason enough.

I think back to the inscription in the book. It wasn’t your usual book-signing; it seemed far more personal than that. Intriguing; I wonder if its author, John Simpson, can shed any light.

I spend a couple of hours on the internet. John Simpson has a website and is quite well known in the Sheffield area for his books on local wildlife but particularly for his hand-drawn illustrations which are quite exceptional. Although now in his late sixties he gives talks at local venues once a month, the next being in two weeks’ time in the main library in Sheffield. It appears the talks are open to the general public – a ‘just turn up’ affair. I decide there and then to book some annual leave.

A couple of weeks later I’m on the road to Sheffield and am fortunate that the travelling goes smoothly so that I’m settled in a hotel close to the town centre in time to freshen up and have something to eat before attending Mr Simpson’s talk.

John Simpson is a dapper little man, dressed in a slightly dishevelled suit and waistcoat; he reminds me of Charlie Chaplin. His talk is engaging and, displayed larger than life on the screen by an overhead projector, his drawings are awe-inspiring in their detail. He richly deserves the applause he receives.

As people drift away I hang back, selecting one of the books he has on display. Rummaging in my purse, ‘Ah, I thought I had the correct money.’

I smile as I hand over the notes and congratulate him on a very enjoyable evening.

‘You’re most welcome, my dear.’ He has a lovely twinkle in his eye as he peers over the top of his half specs. Obviously such a trusting soul, so easy to deceive; it’s like dealing with a child.

‘I recently saw another of your books, written some time ago I believe. One of my students was showing it to me. He says he knows you.’

‘Really? What’s his name?’

‘Barry Mason.’ I say his surname without thinking.

‘Barry Mason? Mmm, can’t say I recall. Does he live in Sheffield?’

‘No, at least, not any more.’

‘’So he lived in Sheffield at one time, then? Still, can’t say I remember the name but then, my memory isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid.’

Mr Simpson emits a quiet sigh of acceptance.

‘There was an inscription in the book, I remember. I asked Barry about it but he just shrugged; you know how uncommunicative these young lads can be sometimes.’

‘Oh indeed, yes. Can you remember what it said?’

‘Yes, that’s why I queried it with Barry. It said “For Barry Howden. Happy memories, John Simpson.”

‘Barry Howden! Now that name I do remember. I didn’t realise he’d changed his name although, under the circumstances, I can understand why; such a terrible tragedy.’

‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me; what tragedy was that?’

‘It was in all the papers; caused quite a stir in the local community. Barry would have been about nine, I guess; terrible thing for a young lad to witness. It must have been about three years that they lived next door. He was a bright lad and things were fine unless his father was home. Long distance lorry driver I believe. Couldn’t handle the drink but couldn’t leave it alone either. The papers said Barry had hit his dad over the head with a poker and knocked him out, trying to defend his mother and then called the police but whatever the truth, the poor kid must have been terrified.’

I can sense Mr Simpson’s genuine dismay at the turn of events and smile reassuringly as he gazes into the middle distance, lost in his thoughts.

‘I think it was best they moved him away although I did miss him but better that he should have a fresh start. So, you teach him, do you?’

‘Only a secondary subject; his main interest is the Small Animal and Wildlife course. I believe he wants to get into conservation work eventually.’

‘That really pleases me,’ Mr Simpson beams, his delight evident, ‘I’m sure that lad will go far. Please, wish him well for me. You’ve made my day, young lady.’ He glances down at his watch, ‘Look at the time, I must be off; lovely to meet you.’

‘And you.’

I watch Mr Simpson as he leaves the library, the spring in his step causing me to smile as I muse on the fact that lies are not always bad. How very interesting our conversation was; so, given enough provocation, Barry is capable of violence, even at the tender age of nine; it seems that tendency is still with him.

I debate whether to just leave it here; I don’t think there’s any doubt that Edward Howden is Barry’s father and, after what I’ve heard on the news report and from Mr Simpson, I’m not surprised Barry assaulted his dad. I suppose I could do some internet research on the British Library’s newspaper collection site. It might be interesting to learn the details of the trial but I doubt it will throw up anything more useful than I already have. No, on balance, it’s more important to concentrate on moving things forward than back history.

Back at the hotel I pop into the bar for a bedtime brandy. It’s quite pleasant in here, a lot of dark oak panelling and deep crimson seats; a kind of settled, old world feel about it, yet I feel restless, a bit bored with my own company; I need a few hours distraction.

It’s very quiet although not that late. There’s a middle aged couple in the corner looking as though they both wished they were with someone else and a couple of reps leaning over their laptops, obviously trying to update in readiness for meetings the next day.

I settle back into my comfy seat and briefly close my eyes, savouring the taste of the brandy on my tongue.

‘May I join you?’

A slight exclamation of surprise escapes me as I open my eyes.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.’

A handsome man is standing directly in front of me, nursing a glass of red wine.

‘No, it’s OK. I’m afraid I’ve had rather a long day.’

He makes a small nod of his head and starts to turn away.

‘But please, do join me, some company would be nice.’

His smile widens as he draws up a chair, ‘Can I get you another drink?’ he indicates my glass.

‘Please, it’s brandy.’

I watch him as he strolls to the bar. Almost six feet tall with a toned athletic build he cuts an attractive figure. He’s smartly dressed in an expensive looking business suit, although he’s removed the tie as a small concession to an evening of relaxation. This is a man for whom appearance is paramount and who obviously appreciates quality. He hands me my brandy. ‘Are you on holiday?’

‘No, not really, just doing a bit of research into my family tree. It seems I once had some ancestors in this area but I’ve hit a bit of a dead end. I take it you’re here on business?’

‘The suit is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’ His smile is quite lovely. I can tell he’s a veritable charmer but what the hell, as long as I’m aware it doesn’t matter; I can play the seduction game as well as anyone else.

I glance at his beautifully manicured hands and note the absence of a wedding ring; not that that means anything.

Do I mind if he’s married? No, not really. It’s not up to me to be his moral conscience.

‘Will you be here tomorrow evening?’ he leans forward across the table.

I sense his unspoken desire and turn my head slightly to one side, looking coyly up at him, a smile of acceptance on my lips. ‘I can be.’

‘Will you allow me to buy you dinner, then?’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

‘The pleasure will be all mine, I assure you. I can’t think of a better way to end the working week than wining and dining with a beautiful young lady.’

I smile, accepting his flattery in the light-hearted manner in which it’s intended. ‘You said you’re here on business; may I ask what you do?’

‘I’m a partner in an architectural practice based in London but we’ve projects all over the country.’

Swiftly, he moves the conversation back to focus on me.

‘So, you’re tracing your family tree; have you found any notorious or famous ancestors yet?’

I give a light chuckle, ‘No, nothing so interesting I’m afraid. I’m beginning to think we’ve been a decidedly dull lot down the generations!’

He smiles, leaning back in his chair, so obviously comfortable in his own skin. He seems faintly familiar; something about him is chipping at the edge of my mind. Perhaps he reminds me of Mick, my policeman boyfriend; similar build and self-assurance which are probably what makes me find him extremely seductive.

‘My name is Amelia, by the way.’ I inflect a slight rebuke into my tone that he hasn’t already enquired but he glides over it, not the least perturbed.

‘Peter, Peter Everard,’ he inclines his head slightly, his fingers lightly touching his breast bone, as if bowing.

I can’t help but smile and ignoring his flippancy ask,

‘So, you’re here working. Do you live far away?’

‘Coventry; we have a small satellite office there.’

‘I’ve never been but I understand it’s a lovely city. Have you always lived there?’

‘No, I grew up in Dorset.’

‘Really, whereabouts?’

I keep silent as to my own childhood connections with the area.

‘Near Dorchester but we moved when I was about sixteen.’

Peter looks at his watch.

‘I didn’t realise it was quite so late and I, for one, need my beauty sleep; got an early start in the morning.’ He makes a poor attempt at stifling a yawn. ‘May I walk you to your room?’

Why do I feel that he’s deliberately avoiding any further questions?

‘Of course.’

As we walk along the hotel corridor he rests his hand gently on the small of my back. His touch is feather light yet it seems to go through me like an electric charge and it takes all my willpower to stop at a chaste goodnight kiss.

He touches my cheek, ‘I did mean what I said earlier, you are very beautiful you know.’

I smile my acknowledgement of his compliment and unlock my bedroom door.

Standing before the full-length mirror I appraise my image. What an asset my beauty has proved to be over the years. I turn this way and that, admiring the curves of my well-proportioned breasts and hips. There’s nothing voluptuous or brazenly sexy about me but I’ve perfected an elegant femininity of movement and posture that suggests an inherent sensuality that men seem to find compelling. I allow myself a surreptitious smile; will men never learn not to judge a book by its cover?

I prepare for bed knowing that I really do need to get some sleep but the coincidence of the closeness of our childhood homes coupled with the strange impression of familiarity and my sixth sense that he was deliberately avoiding personal detail, causes me a disturbed night.

Next morning is crisp and clear, encouraging me to put my doubts to one side for a while; instead I might as well turn this trip into a mini holiday and tour some of Sheffield’s art galleries.

By the time I return to the hotel my feet are aching and my senses are in overload from the many and varied works of art I’ve been contemplating. I take a lovely long soak in the bath and apply tasteful yet understated makeup. I wish I’d packed something a bit more elegant to wear but at least I have with me the obligatory ‘little black dress’ so that will have to do.

When I enter the hotel bar Peter is already there, in conversation with the bartender. His smile of welcome is sincere, tinged it seems with a slight feeling of relief which gives me an unexpected thrill as he places a proprietorial hand on my shoulder. ‘Amelia, what would you like to drink?’

There’s a group of four men sitting round a table to the left of us and I notice their glances of appreciation in my direction. I see Peter notices it too and subtly places himself in their line of vision, staking his claim to me; men are so territorial!

I allow myself to be shepherded to a table in the corner and take a sip of Pinot Noir.

‘I’ve booked a table in the restaurant for eight; I hope that’s OK with you?’

‘That’s fine.’

Peter is handsome; I can appreciate that more now that I’m not as tired as I was the previous evening. His eyes are a dappled hazel with flecks of gold. He has slight stubble that is expertly shaped emphasising his jaw line, definitely the work of a Turkish barber and full, sensuous lips that readily smile. I find my gaze fixed on their movement as he makes small talk, heightening my anticipation for the rest of the evening.

‘How has your research been going? Have you traced any more of your ancestors?’

I snap out of my reverie, take an enormous swallow of wine and force myself into the present, ‘Not well, really. Hit a bit of a wall I’m afraid so I used it as an excuse to indulge my interest in art.’ By way of explanation I add, ‘I teach art history so I’ve spent the day traipsing round art galleries.’

‘I consider that an excellent use of your time,’ approval is evident in his tone, ‘when I’m in London I often spend my lunch-hours in the art galleries or museums.’

‘Which is your favourite?’

‘Oh, I think the National Gallery, so many different styles under the one roof.’

‘Yes, I agree but for me it’s got to be the National Portrait Gallery. I can spend hours just gazing, trying to get a sense of the person behind the paint.’

‘Ah, a soul searcher; I can see I shall need to be careful what I say.’

I allow myself a slight smile; indeed you should, around me.

‘Excuse me, sir, madam, your table is ready.’ The waiter stands politely back and motions us to follow, directing us to a table in the far corner. The restaurant curtains are drawn against the dark December night, the subdued lighting enhanced by candles on each table, giving the illusion of intimacy. There are enough diners to create a comfortable atmosphere, their conversations merely affording a pleasant backdrop of murmurings to our own small talk.

We concentrate on the formalities of wine and food choosing and sit back, our eyes meeting as we contemplate each other. A one night stand would suit me fine but I’d like to know a little more about this man before I take him into my bed. That slight feeling of familiarity is still there.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

Peter looks slightly uncomfortable; I can’t imagine why.

‘No, no I don’t. Do you?’

Shall I admit that I had a brother once? No, I’m not in the habit of sharing Matt with anyone.

‘No, like you, I’m a one and only.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me, you’re quite unique.’

Peter raises his glass in salutation as I smile my delight at his compliment.

‘Where did you move to?’

Peter looks confused so I explain,

‘You said you moved from Dorset when you were about sixteen.’

‘Oh, yes, so I did. Nearer to London, better work prospects for my father. How about you, have you moved around much?’

‘Like your father, I’ve only ever moved for work reasons.’

We linger over our meal, conversation minimal but much conveyed by suggestive looks and body language so that, by the time the meal is over, anticipation and sexual desire between us is palpable.

Peter lifts up our second bottle of wine to the light.

‘All gone I’m afraid. Would you like a brandy or some coffee?’

I remove my shoe under the table and run my stockinged foot up his calf.

‘Actually, I think I’d like to go somewhere quiet.’

Peter’s smile is confident, assured; he thinks he’s in control. No matter. I can be gracious provided the end result is of my choosing. He stands and offers me his arm as we leave the restaurant.

Entering my hotel room, he pushes me against the wall as the door closes behind us and kisses me hard with an urgency that won’t admit delay. His fingers find the zip at the back of my dress and expertly pull it down, peeling the straps from my shoulders. My dress slides to the floor as he bends his head down to kiss my breasts. I place my arms around his neck as he lifts and carries me toward the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he kneels over me, removing his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto the floor as I reach for the zip of his trousers.

I close my eyes and give myself up to animal instinct, the physical sensation so satisfying I have no need of emotional attachment.

Later, under the covers, Peter makes love to me again; slower, gentler and almost reverential. Drifting into sleep I muse as to which I prefer.

Next morning we order breakfast to the room, he pours the coffee and handing me a cup he leans forward and places a tender kiss on my forehead. ‘I have to leave today.’ It’s a statement said in a tone that doesn’t allow any discussion so I simply nod my acceptance with a slight downturn of my mouth, implying my disappointment. It does no harm to dissemble.

I watch him leave, a tinge of disappointment spoiling the pleasure of the previous night, it would have been nice to have lingered a little longer but I am, above all else, a pragmatist. I must get back to see what progress the police have made regarding Edward Howden’s death and Peter would only be a distraction I can ill afford.