sixty-five years old and grey-haired and smiling quietly.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She said. ‘One day…’
Forrester nodded. He smiled at their catchphrase. Maybe one day. ‘I just find it hard sometimes. My wife gets depressed and she turns away at night. We never have sex from one month to the next, but at least we are alive.’
‘And you have your son.’
‘Yes. Yes we have him. I guess sometimes you have to be grateful for what is, rather than what isn’t. I mean. What do alcoholics say in AA? You got to fake it to make it. All that bullshit. I guess that’s what I’ve got to do. Just do that. Pretend I’m OK sometimes.’ He stopped again and the silence echoed around the warm sitting room. At last he sat up. His hour was up. All he could hear was traffic, muffled by the windows and the curtains.
‘Thanks, Dr Edwards.’
‘Please. As I said, call me Janice. You’ve been coming here six months.’
‘Thanks, Janice.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll see you next week?’
He stood. They shook hands, politely. Forrester felt cleansed and slightly lighter in spirit.
He drove back to Hendon in a calm and pleasantly pensive mood. Another day. He’d got through another day. Without drinking or shouting.
The house was full of his son’s noise when he keyed the door. His wife was in the kitchen watching the news on TV. The smell of pasta and pesto wafted through. It was OK. Things were OK. In the kitchen his wife kissed him and he said he’d been to a session and she smiled and seemed relatively content.
Before supper Forrester went outside into the garden and rolled a tiny spliff of grass. He felt no guilt as he did it. He smoked the weed, standing on his patio, exhaling the blue smoke into the starry sky, and sensed his neck-muscles unknotting. Then he went back into the house and lay on the floor of the sitting room and helped his son with a puzzle. And then there was a phone call.
In the kitchen his wife was sieving the penne. Hot steam. The smell of pesto.
‘Hello?’
‘DCI?’
Forrester recognized his junior’s slight Finnish accent immediately. ‘Boijer, I’m just about to eat.’
‘Sorry, sir, but I got this strange call…’
‘Yeah?’
‘That friend of mine-Skelding, you know, Niall.’
Forrester thought for a moment, then he remembered: the tall guy who worked on the Home Office murder database. They’d all had a drink once.
‘Yeah, I remember. Skelding. Works on HOLMES.’
‘That’s right. Well he just called me and said they’ve got a new homicide, the Isle of Man.’
‘And?’
‘Some guy’s been killed. Very nasty. In a big house.’
‘Long way away, the Isle of Man…’
Boijer agreed. Forrester watched his wife sauce the penne with the vivid green pesto. It looked slightly like bile; but it smelled good. Forrester coughed impatiently. ‘As I said, Boijer, my wife’s just made a very nice dinner and I—’
‘Yes, sorry, sir, but the thing is, before this guy was killed, the attackers cut a symbol into his chest.’
‘You mean…’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right. A Star of David.’
11
The day after Franz’s supper party Rob rang his ex-wife’s home. His daughter Lizzie picked up. She still didn’t really know how to use a phone. Rob called into it, ‘Darling, use the other end.’
‘Hello, Daddy. Hello.’
‘Dar…’
Just hearing Lizzie talk gave Rob a stabbing sense of guilt. And also a sheer basic pleasure that he had a daughter. And an angry desire to protect her. And then an extra guilt that he wasn’t there, in England, protecting her.
But protecting her from what? She was safe in suburban London. She was fine.
When Lizzie had worked out the right end of the phone, they talked for an hour and Rob promised to send her jpegs of where he was. Then he reluctantly put the phone down and decided it was time to get to work. Hearing his daughter often did this: it was like an instinct, something genetic. The reminder of his familyduties energized
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She said. ‘One day…’
Forrester nodded. He smiled at their catchphrase. Maybe one day. ‘I just find it hard sometimes. My wife gets depressed and she turns away at night. We never have sex from one month to the next, but at least we are alive.’
‘And you have your son.’
‘Yes. Yes we have him. I guess sometimes you have to be grateful for what is, rather than what isn’t. I mean. What do alcoholics say in AA? You got to fake it to make it. All that bullshit. I guess that’s what I’ve got to do. Just do that. Pretend I’m OK sometimes.’ He stopped again and the silence echoed around the warm sitting room. At last he sat up. His hour was up. All he could hear was traffic, muffled by the windows and the curtains.
‘Thanks, Dr Edwards.’
‘Please. As I said, call me Janice. You’ve been coming here six months.’
‘Thanks, Janice.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll see you next week?’
He stood. They shook hands, politely. Forrester felt cleansed and slightly lighter in spirit.
He drove back to Hendon in a calm and pleasantly pensive mood. Another day. He’d got through another day. Without drinking or shouting.
The house was full of his son’s noise when he keyed the door. His wife was in the kitchen watching the news on TV. The smell of pasta and pesto wafted through. It was OK. Things were OK. In the kitchen his wife kissed him and he said he’d been to a session and she smiled and seemed relatively content.
Before supper Forrester went outside into the garden and rolled a tiny spliff of grass. He felt no guilt as he did it. He smoked the weed, standing on his patio, exhaling the blue smoke into the starry sky, and sensed his neck-muscles unknotting. Then he went back into the house and lay on the floor of the sitting room and helped his son with a puzzle. And then there was a phone call.
In the kitchen his wife was sieving the penne. Hot steam. The smell of pesto.
‘Hello?’
‘DCI?’
Forrester recognized his junior’s slight Finnish accent immediately. ‘Boijer, I’m just about to eat.’
‘Sorry, sir, but I got this strange call…’
‘Yeah?’
‘That friend of mine-Skelding, you know, Niall.’
Forrester thought for a moment, then he remembered: the tall guy who worked on the Home Office murder database. They’d all had a drink once.
‘Yeah, I remember. Skelding. Works on HOLMES.’
‘That’s right. Well he just called me and said they’ve got a new homicide, the Isle of Man.’
‘And?’
‘Some guy’s been killed. Very nasty. In a big house.’
‘Long way away, the Isle of Man…’
Boijer agreed. Forrester watched his wife sauce the penne with the vivid green pesto. It looked slightly like bile; but it smelled good. Forrester coughed impatiently. ‘As I said, Boijer, my wife’s just made a very nice dinner and I—’
‘Yes, sorry, sir, but the thing is, before this guy was killed, the attackers cut a symbol into his chest.’
‘You mean…’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right. A Star of David.’
11
The day after Franz’s supper party Rob rang his ex-wife’s home. His daughter Lizzie picked up. She still didn’t really know how to use a phone. Rob called into it, ‘Darling, use the other end.’
‘Hello, Daddy. Hello.’
‘Dar…’
Just hearing Lizzie talk gave Rob a stabbing sense of guilt. And also a sheer basic pleasure that he had a daughter. And an angry desire to protect her. And then an extra guilt that he wasn’t there, in England, protecting her.
But protecting her from what? She was safe in suburban London. She was fine.
When Lizzie had worked out the right end of the phone, they talked for an hour and Rob promised to send her jpegs of where he was. Then he reluctantly put the phone down and decided it was time to get to work. Hearing his daughter often did this: it was like an instinct, something genetic. The reminder of his familyduties energized
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