An Enormous Yes (25 page)

‘Could we discuss it tomorrow, Silas?’

‘No, I’m afraid that’s not convenient. I have a check-up at the hospital and they may keep me hanging around for ages.’

‘OK,’ she said, tersely, incensed by the fact that he always put his own convenience before that of other people. ‘I’ll come over this evening.’

‘Maria, you know I hate evenings. You seem to forget I’m unwell and get tired by the end of the day.’

Little chance of forgetting, when he continually harped on his illness. ‘Well, how about Tuesday morning, first thing?’

‘You don’t understand,’ he persisted, ‘that it’s important I see you
today
. You see, I want to make a definite date to meet Amy, and Father’s Day seems the perfect occasion to do so.’

Could she be hearing right? She had longed for him to say those words since their very first encounter. Yet there was no guarantee that he might not change his mind by Tuesday, so, whatever the inconvenience, she simply had to agree. ‘All right, I’ll leave Kate’s straight after lunch and should be with you by half past three, OK?’

‘Perfect. See you then.’

She rung off, fazed by all the conflicting emotions: delight that Amy could meet her father, at last, yet annoyance at that father’s manipulation; concern about Felix’s reaction if he ever got to know she was discussing sex with Silas; worry that Kate might think her rude if she dashed off after lunch, or the girls be upset if she missed their dance-display.

Well, she had better arrive dead on time to compensate – which meant stopping work on her painting and getting washed and changed. And if she had left the house before Felix rang back, that might actually be a blessing because, in her present frame of mind, she couldn’t cope with any more pressures.

Having cleaned her hands with turps, she gave them a final scrub with soap and water, then, returning to her easel, tried to calm herself a moment by focusing on the serene, unthreatening colours. Whatever the turmoil in her mind and whatever might transpire later on at Lewisham, she intended to enjoy the time at Kate’s, however short. At least the only conflict in that easygoing household would be which of the girls should sit next to her at table, and whether Kate would allow them to risk spoiling their appetites by eating the gingerbread-men before lunch.

She rang the bell again, so loud and long this time that, even if Silas had dozed off in his chair, the shrill crescendo would wake him – indeed, would wake the soundest of sleepers. But still he didn’t appear. She shifted from foot to foot, annoyed to have dragged out here on a sluggish Sunday train and cut short the happy day at Kate’s, all in vain, it seemed. Could he have forgotten she was coming?

No, that made no sense. He might have cancer but there was nothing
wrong with his memory and, anyway, they had made the arrangement only a few hours ago. She rummaged for her phone and dialled his number – a pretty pointless exercise, since, if he hadn’t heard the bell, why should he hear the phone? And, as he didn’t own a mobile, there was no way of getting hold of him if he
had
slipped out for some reason. But why should he go out when he had wanted to see her so badly? They had agreed on half past three and she’d actually arrived at 3.37, but surely even Silas wouldn’t stalk out in a huff because she was seven minutes late.

Or was she being too impatient? After all, he
was
an invalid and did suffer with his bowels. For all she knew, he might have been caught short and was trying to clean himself up in the bathroom, unable to face her until he had made himself presentable. Or perhaps he had suddenly felt dizzy, or unwell, and needed time to recover before he made it to the door. In any case, Silas was a law unto himself, so she must simply wait it out and trust he would show up sooner or later.

She paced back and forth along the shabby corridor, her thoughts returning to Kate and Paul. The latter was so affable and courteous, she couldn’t help contrasting him with Silas. Apart from his frequent absences in Frankfurt – which, in any case, were due to end next month – he seemed the perfect father, and she only wished her own daughter had been blessed with such a loving dad. However, that made her all the more determined to persevere with Silas until they had agreed a date for him and Amy to meet. And the perfect time would be round about Amy’s birthday – a mere five days away. So, whatever it took, and however long she had to stick around, either ringing his bell or searching this whole vicinity, she wouldn’t rest until that date was in her diary.

‘H
APPY BIRTHDAY, DARLING
!’

As Amy appeared at the kitchen door, Maria went to meet her and enfolded her in a hug – the sort of gentle, careful hug now necessitated by the increasingly prominent ‘bump’. ‘The last year of your thirties, so make the most of it!’

‘Think of
next
year, though. I’ll be a proper mother then, with a baby nearly ten months old.’

‘You’re a proper mother now,’ Maria told her, fondly. ‘And I’m glad you’ve let me cook you breakfast just this once.’

‘Yes, I can highly recommend the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon.’ Hugo waved his fork in their direction before scooping up another mouthful. ‘Far superior to my usual bacon roll at work. But I’m afraid I’ll have to be off in a tick. It’s an early start this morning, so all celebrations later, OK? And Amy, darling, I’ll give you your present this evening, at the party, if you can bear to wait that long!’

‘The suspense will kill me,’ she said, seating herself beside him with a smile. ‘And, talking of the party, don’t go to too much trouble, Mum. I know it’s your life class day, so we’re not expecting the fatted calf.’

‘Don’t worry, the class only lasts a couple of hours, so I’ll have plenty of time to make dinner.’

‘I’m so glad Chloe and Nicholas can come.’ Amy helped herself to eggs and toast. ‘In fact, we ought to make it a double celebration – you know, with Sam being discharged from hospital tomorrow.’

‘They must be over the moon.’ Maria had finished her own breakfast and was already washing the egg-saucepan, aware of her busy day ahead. ‘After him being in intensive care for – what was it, eight weeks?’

‘Yes, but they’re also frightfully anxious – I mean, having to cope on their own, without a whole battery of nurses to hand.’

‘Well, let’s try and make it as relaxed for her as possible – relaxed for all
of us, in fact.’ Little chance of that for
her
, but she was determined to keep her worries to herself, since Hugo had enough to contend with; still jetlagged after last night’s flight from Dubai and bitterly disappointed that the two warring parties had failed to reach a settlement. ‘I know how hard you two have to work, so it’ll be just a simple, laid-back supper, at a time that suits you both. When she phoned, Chloe said Nicholas won’t be working late, so what shall we say? Half past seven? Eight?’

‘Eight is safer,’ Amy said, ‘so long as that’s all right for Felix.’

‘Yes, perfect.’ Maria felt a new ripple of unease. Amy had insisted on Felix joining the party, to ‘make him part of the family’ – something of an irony when
he
was the one urging her to put herself and her art before family or duty. Yet at least it seemed to show that Amy had accepted their affair. In fact, her disquiet on that score had been replaced by constant
speculations
about the rival claims of her lover and her daughter. She even found herself working out the best possible time to quit her post as nanny, should she so decide. Autumn was far too early, whatever Felix might say, but suppose she stayed on hand for the baby’s first six months – including its first Christmas – and then joined Felix in late January? She had, of course, forbidden him to breathe a word about Cornwall. The whole matter was on hold until she had actually viewed the chapel – a visit she had managed to postpone until tomorrow week.

‘More coffee, Hugo?’ she asked, resolving to ignore the unpleasant churning in her stomach that inevitably resulted whenever her thoughts returned to Cornwall. If her son-in-law could conceal his apprehension beneath a cheerful demeanour, then she must do the same.

‘No, I’d better dash. But thanks for breakfast.’ He gave them both a kiss, before grabbing his car keys from the dresser. ‘See you this evening, OK?’

‘I ought to be off myself pretty soon.’ Amy drained her orange juice, then forked in the last of her egg. ‘There’s an important client meeting at 8.30.’

‘Have you time to open your present before you leave?’

‘No, let’s have presents this evening, as Hugo suggested. And, anyway, Mum, I gave you strict instructions not to get me a thing. You’ve been far too generous already, buying all that baby stuff.’

Was it generosity or guilt, Maria speculated? The more Felix stressed the advantages of Cornwall, the more monstrous she felt towards her daughter and grandchild.

While Amy went upstairs to do her make-up, Maria sat at the kitchen table, head in hands, reflecting on a still greater source of worry: that of Silas’s whereabouts. She had been back to his flat every day this week, yet, exactly as on Sunday, there had been no answer to the bell and no reply
when she phoned. Endless frightening scenarios had begun to play out in her mind: his cancer had returned and he’d been rushed to some specialist hospital; he’d gone out on the Sunday to buy something for their tea and been knocked down by a car; he was lying unconscious in some
high-dependency
ward. Yet she had checked on all the local hospitals,
and
on both branches of the Marsden, and none of them had admitted a Mr Silas Keegan.

Perhaps he had simply panicked at the thought of being a father and decided to lie low. The prospect of any commitment, however vague or occasional, might simply be too daunting for him after a lifetime free of any responsibilities. The uncertainty of the situation was beginning to wear her down, even giving her bad dreams. Last night, she’d woken in terror after a succession of bombs exploded through her sleep; she had been dreaming of her mother working in the munitions factory, way back in the war, when, suddenly, the factory suffered a hit and erupted in sheets of flame.

Of course, she hadn’t said a word to Amy about her worry over Silas, let alone to Felix.
He
would be annoyed that she should be expending so much time and angst on a man he judged as worthless.

All at once, she came to a decision. However busy she might be today, she would trek out one final time to Latimer Court and if she drew a blank yet again she would report Silas’s apparent disappearance to the Lewisham police. It would make her timings tight, but she just had to keep him as her number-one priority, otherwise she knew she couldn’t concentrate on
shopping
and cooking for the party. Admittedly, it was a good hour’s journey to Lewisham, each way, and she would also need a fair amount of time to discuss the matter fully with the officer on duty – which meant almost half the day gone. However, if she went straight on from Lewisham to the life class and left the class the minute it was over, she should be able to conjure up a decent birthday dinner well before eight o’clock. For once, she was glad the cleaner was due. Normally, she was embarrassed by the sight of poor work-worn Sumiah tackling the heavy chores and had to restrain her natural instinct to pitch in with broom and bucket.

‘Mum, are you OK?’ Amy had reappeared, briefcase in hand; her
previously
pale face now glowing with blusher and lip-gloss.

‘Yes, fine,’ she said, hastily sitting up.

‘Well, you don’t look fine, slumped over the table like that! You’re
obviously
dead beat, so why not do a Chloe and
buy
the food for tonight?’

‘Shop-bought food for my daughter’s thirty-ninth! I wouldn’t hear of it. Anyway, I’m perfectly all right. I was just thinking out the shopping list.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. I thought you’d keeled over at first. But, look, I’d better run now. Enjoy your day, Mum.’

‘Will do,’ she said, feigning a cheery smile. Whether she enjoyed her day or not depended totally on what transpired with Silas.

Nervously, she hovered outside the police station, feeling horribly alone and somehow unwilling to go in. Finally, though, she forced herself to enter and walked up to the reception desk, her outward show of confidence belying her jittery mood. Once she had explained the situation, she was directed to one of the daunting-looking booths, ranged along the side of the room and constructed of what appeared to be bomb-proof, bullet-proof glass. As she entered, the automatic glass doors closed noiselessly behind her, sealing her off in a claustrophobic space, and she felt almost like a prisoner being punished for some transgression.

‘Can I help?’ asked the female sitting behind another wall of glass – clearly not a police officer, since she was dressed identically to the
receptionist
, in a pale blue blouse, blue cravat and saggy navy cardigan. Nonetheless, Maria repeated her story, which the woman relayed by phone to, presumably, someone in authority. There followed a frustrating
three-way
exchange – the female frequently breaking off to check various facts and details with Maria – before finally saying that an officer would be out to see her shortly and would she kindly wait for him in reception.

As the automatic doors released her, she joined a couple of other people who also seemed to be waiting, yet looked enviably relaxed; one chatting on his mobile, the other leafing through the
Sun
. Too tense to sit down, she studied the police noticeboards, her eye caught by the headline:
DO YOU KNOW WHERE THESE PEOPLE ARE
? It required courage to scrutinize the half-dozen featured mug-shots, for fear of seeing Silas’s face. Could he have been kidnapped, perhaps, by an enemy from his chequered past, seeking revenge or retribution, or even have committed some crime himself? No, she must restrain her wild imaginings; there was bound to be a simpler explanation.

‘Maria Brown?’

She swung round to see a cheery-looking officer with a chubby, freckled face and hair an unabashed flame-red, who introduced himself as PC Michael Forrester.

‘Do call me Mike. I like to keep things informal. And may I call you Maria?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Right, come this way, Maria.’

He showed her into a small, windowless room and, having motioned her to one of the chairs, seated himself opposite. ‘Now, I understand you’re worried about a Mr Silas Keegan. Would you like to give me more details – when you last met him, what happened on that occasion, and whether you’ve asked his friends and neighbours if they’ve seen him or not.’

She recounted the story – third time – including her futile attempts to question the people in the flats adjoining Silas’s, as well as those above him and below, and also detailing the enquiries she had made at all the local shops, and her phone calls to a variety of hospitals.

Having jotted down all she said, he then asked her for a full description of Silas, so he could check his records and see if anyone on the Missing Persons Register answered to that description.

‘Won’t be long,’ he said, although every second of his absence seemed to crawl and dawdle, as if the clock had contracted some degenerative disease.

‘No,’ he told her, on his return, ‘there’s no one on the register bearing any resemblance to your friend. But, look, if you’re really concerned, I’ll call one of my colleagues and we’ll come round to the flat with you and see what we can find. Would you wait for us outside this building, by the entrance to the car park, and we’ll pick you up in ten minutes or so.’

Once outside, she peered through the tall, blue, metal gates at the
impressive
array of police vans, cars and motorbikes. Eventually, Mike drew up in one of the BMW saloons and, as she got into the back, he introduced his colleague as PC Yvonne Prescott: a solidly built woman with a majestic bosom but no discernible waist. She chatted affably as they drove along the High Street, but Maria found it difficult to say much in reply. She was looking at the normal, carefree people wandering from shop to shop; wishing she could be even half as calm.

Having parked outside Silas’s dingy block of flats, Yvonne and Mike escorted her up the concrete stairs and along the seventh-floor corridor. As Mike rang the bell loud and long, Maria had a sudden vision of Silas appearing in person on the doorstep, making her look a total fool in front of the police.

But no one came; not even when Mike shouted Silas’s name and banged on the door with both fists. And Yvonne’s enquiries at the adjoining flats yielded no information. In fact, the man at number 728 slammed the door in her face, after yelling, in a furious tone, ‘How many more times do I have to tell the lady I ain’t seen the stupid old bugger? Is she deaf or something?’

And, at flat 724, the same doddery old lady appeared, whom Maria had also questioned frequently; the last time less than an hour ago. The crone
repeated her story: no, she rarely caught a glimpse of her neighbour and had long since written him off as a recluse.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to force the door,’ Mike said. ‘So, if you hold on here with Yvonne, I’ll go and fetch the enforcer from the car.’

While they waited, the woman made more small talk, although, with her mind fixated on Silas, it was no easier for Maria to engage in conversation than it had been earlier. If he were, in fact, deliberately avoiding her, he might be out now at the shops and would be incandescent with rage to come back home and find his flat violated, his front door wrecked.

When Mike returned, he was carrying something she recognized from television police dramas: a bright red metal object, about two feet long, with a handle on the top.

‘Stand back!’ he warned. ‘There might be flying splinters.’

Yvonne led her out of harm’s way, a few steps along the passage, yet, even so, she flinched at the sound of a splintering crash; watched the door fly open; saw the woman at 724 peering from her own door in astonished curiosity.

‘Wait there, Maria,’ Mike called, ‘while we check things out.’

Yvonne followed him into the flat, leaving Maria on her own, apart from the nosy neighbour, still gawping and expostulating.

The minute she saw Yvonne emerge, Maria darted forward to meet her at the open door, recoiling at the stench wafting from the flat: a sharp, acrid, shitty smell – the smell of death, decay. ‘Wh…what’s happened?’ she
stuttered
, screwing up her face against the nauseating reek.

Yvonne took her arm. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’