Waking Broken Read online

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses. If you don’t want the job, tell me. If you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine. I’m old enough to be able to take the truth.’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘It’s not that. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  Cash put a hand on his heart and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Well, that’s a relief. I thought maybe I was losing my charm after all these years.’

  Rebecca laughed. ‘Don’t worry, there’s still a bit left.’

  Cash winced. ‘It’s not completely faded?’

  She shook her head. ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’

  He gave her a jaunty salute before leaning forwards and fixing her with a look of furious concentration. ‘So? What is it? What’s up with you today?’

  Rebecca hesitated.

  ‘Uh, uh.’ Cash wagged a finger. ‘If we’re going to work together we’re going to have to be able to trust each other and that doesn’t just mean talking shop. If you’re going to be my assistant, you’re going to have to get to know me and I want to know you. I don’t want a glorified secretary, I want someone I can put my faith in; that means they’ve got to have faith in me. We need to be able to share the good bits and the bad bits in life. So, ’fess up. What on earth has happened to you since yesterday.’

  Rebecca looked into her glass then downed the remaining mouthful of wine. ‘Okay. Fair enough.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll talk. But I warn you, it’s a complicated story and you might not believe it: I’m not sure I do.’

  Cash raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  Rebecca smiled and held her glass out. ‘But first I’m going to need some more wine and I’d really like to take you up on the offer of some food; I’m starving.’

  18. Reality Check

  Wednesday, 7.10pm:

  Harper could not help stopping and staring as they passed the Kavanaugh Centre site. The bottom of the main excavation was now in darkness but orange light from the surrounding streets spilled over the fences. He noticed that the frame of the retaining wall looked more or less finished: two parallel walls of plywood shuttering standing either side of a grid of reinforcing steel.

  Harper gave an involuntary shiver, imagining what it would be like down inside the wall: imprisoned by cold metal, sandwiched between wooden walls, a narrow slot of dark sky somewhere above. And then concrete being poured down, an unstoppable flow of heavy, wet death.

  For the sake of the murdered woman he was almost happy to be in an alternative existence. Looking at the difference in the state of the development it was clear his life was not the only thing to have taken a different course; hopefully there would also be no body inside this wall.

  ‘What’re you looking at,’ said Brendan. ‘The site of a previous triumph?’

  ‘Huh!’ Harper jerked round. ‘What do you mean?’

  Brendan opened his mouth to reply then hesitated. He gave Harper a considering stare and tilted his head from side to side as if deciding how to respond.

  ‘What?’ Harper repeated his question. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ah.’ Brendan shrugged. ‘I keep forgetting that your memory and mine don’t quite add up. I don’t suppose you remember the story you wrote about this place?’

  Harper scowled. ‘I haven’t written a story for a year or two. That’s what I get other people to do.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s how it would work.’ Brendan shook his head. ‘But not round here. You see, in this world you do write stories. Not maybe as many as people like Tony Wright would want but sometimes you do get your act together. And sometimes you write pretty well. But other times… Well, you’ve managed a few right royal fuck-ups.’

  Harper sighed. ‘Okay, tell me. What did I do?’

  ‘Ah now.’ Brendan grinned. ‘It was a good one.’ He chuckled and clapped Harper on the shoulder. ‘And done with such style, boy.’

  He jerked his head along the road. ‘Come on, I’ll tell you the story while we walk. You’re already keeping me from my usual habits and I’m not spending Friday night standing here while I try and make sense of your exploits.’

  They walked on, towards the city centre.

  ‘Come on,’ said Harper. ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brendan, still smiling, ‘well, if I remember rightly, you were supposed to be covering the crown court. However, you’d got a bit bored and decided to take yourself across the road to The Swan for a spot of refreshment. You’d been there for most of the afternoon when you got talking to this builder who told you about a police investigation into dodgy practice by a local developer.’

  Brendan grinned. ‘So far, so good. Trouble is, you then lost the thread a bit.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Oh, you knew you needed a bit more evidence to stand the story up, so you rang one of your contacts over with the cops. Your man there confirmed the basic facts and, despite being well and truly pissed, you wrote a cracking exposé about the whole sorry affair. Made front page of the next day’s edition.’

  Harper had a sinking sensation in his stomach. ‘So what was wrong with it?’

  ‘Oh it was a classic,’ said Brendan.

  ‘Come on!’

  Brendan was still grinning. ‘You’d got the wrong site. The builder’s story was basically true but you’d misunderstood him when he told you the name of the site. And when you rang your friend at the police you were slurring your words a touch. Thing was, the investigation was nothing to do with the Kavanaugh Centre; it was the Caravan Centre out on Western Road. A couple of miles away and a completely different developer.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Harper groaned.

  ‘Yeah, that was something along the lines of what was said at The Post when the solicitor for the developers rang the editor for a wee chat.’ Brendan gave a mock wince. ‘Although the editor might have used stronger language. Particularly when talking about you.’

  He gave Harper a sideways glance. ‘To be honest, you’re probably still on probation for that one. I know you came pretty close to being sacked. If it wasn’t for the fact that they were already short-staffed, you probably would have been given the boot there and then.’

  Harper cringed. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Oh nothing much,’ said Brendan. ‘Just that the folks from health and safety went into the Kavanaugh Centre and closed the site down. Caused all sorts of a ruckus. Thing is, it sounds like a few wires got crossed all round. You see, the man from the HSE saw your story and, not surprisingly, it rang a few alarm bells. And not knowing anything about the investigation himself, and only having been recently appointed, he decided his boys should swing into action immediately. And to be fair to the man, he did ring the police to see what they had to say and they confirmed there was a criminal investigation underway. Trouble is, the copper he spoke to hadn’t seen the paper himself and didn’t realise they were talking about different places.’

  The photographer shrugged. ‘I went down myself to take some pictures of the HSE carrying out their investigation. The builders had put up all this shuttering for a retaining wall and the HSE made them take it all down so they could check if anything dodgy was going on. In the meantime, you had bosses shouting at foremen, foremen shouting at contractors, contractors walking off site and everyone shouting at the HSE. You were lucky though.’

  ‘Lucky?’ said Harper in surprise. ‘Why’s that?’

  Brendan smiled. ‘Well, at this stage, no one quite understood what was going on. The story in the paper started it all but then this new boss at the HSE said the police had confirmed the story and everyone started blaming the poor cops. It took some of the pressure off The Post because all of a sudden it looked like it wasn’t us that were responsible for the balls up and the editor started saying we’d been fed dodgy information.’

  He shrugged. ‘I never heard what was agreed in the end but the story was pulled from the later editions and a rather terse little apology printed the next day. I
don’t know if the developers still intend to sue but they say the project was put back by a couple of weeks thanks to your little bombshell.’

  Harper was still trying to absorb the implications of Brendan’s story when they reached the bistro on Worcester Hill. Brendan hesitated as they approached the door.

  ‘You sure about this? You wouldn’t prefer we grab something from along The Parade, nip into Maxwell’s for a few jars?’

  ‘Nope.’ Harper shook his head. ‘There’s nothing edible in your cupboards or mine and I want something proper to eat. Besides, you like it here.’

  ‘I like it here?’

  ‘Come on, Brendan.’ Harper slapped his friend on the shoulder, trying to force some bonhomie into the words. ‘We’ll enjoy it. Besides, I reckon a meal is about the least I owe you at the moment.’

  The photographer looked uncertain but followed Harper inside.

  Half an hour later, they were feeling more comfortable: an omelette, salad and a half-bottle of wine sitting inside them. The bistro was quiet and their table tucked into a corner where they could talk and eat in peace.

  Despite again finding himself a stranger in a familiar place, Harper felt at home. The bistro was one of the first places he had taken Rebecca and they had come here at least once a month ever since. Sometimes it was just the two of them; often they brought friends. Rebecca’s old school friend Sarah joined them quite regularly and Harper brought Brendan along on several occasions. And, despite protestations about preferring a pint and a pie in a pub, Harper knew his friend was not really averse to coming to the bistro for a bottle of wine and a steak.

  Harper sighed. For the first time in days, he was enjoying a moment of mental calm and physical relaxation. He buttered another piece of bread and took a bite. ‘Shall we order another bottle?’

  Brendan gave a nod. ‘I reckon it would be sensible. Under the circumstances.’

  Harper smiled quietly. So far the conversation had been easy. By some kind of unspoken mutual agreement, they had managed to avoid speaking of what had been happening. Harper talked about the restaurants he knew and Brendan retold an old story about growing up in Ireland.

  ‘And which circumstances in particular would they be?’

  ‘Oh there’s too many to mention them all,’ said Brendan with a careless wave. ‘But it is Friday night after all. I’m not working tomorrow and, thanks to a very kind if gullible doctor, neither are you.’

  Harper laughed ruefully. ‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

  Brendan gestured at the empty wine bottle. ‘Not until you do something about that, you won’t.’

  Conversation was halted for a while by the arrival of their main course, washed down with another bottle of Bordeaux. Too soon, though, their plates were looking bare. Harper swirled the wine around in his glass.

  ‘By the way, Brendan.’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘I was meaning to ask you. What’s the story with the girl in the flat next to mine? You never told me when I asked earlier?’

  Brendan speared a last chip and shrugged. ‘There’s not really much to tell. Her name’s Kate, she’s a nurse, nice girl. Bit of a shame really.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say you weren’t a perfect gentleman.’

  Harper closed his eyes wearily. ‘Come on, what happened?’

  ‘Not much to tell. She moved in last summer. You made some excuse to pop round, borrowing a tea bag or something like that. Poor girl made the mistake of thinking you were a nice fella. One thing led to another and you spent several months living in each other’s flats and generally putting on the impression of a happy couple.’

  Brendan shrugged. ‘Then you dumped her. Came out of the blue far as I could tell. Kate certainly wasn’t expecting it. Messed her up a bit it did. I must admit I felt rather sorry for her. I liked the girl, still do. Myself, I thought you could have done much worse. You told me some bollocks about feeling uncomfortable about her being around all the time: that you didn’t want to get too committed. To be honest, I’ve a hunch you’d just got bored.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Harper was silent for a while, inspecting the wine in his glass.

  ‘So, anyway, Danny.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking a little myself.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘This whole thing. You popping up in the wrong life.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t sound so worried. I’m not looking for holes in your story.’

  Harper shrugged.

  ‘It’s just,’ said Brendan, ‘your life may be different now but it obviously hasn’t always been. I mean you remembered me; you still worked at the same place even if in a different job. I was wondering, has it been a bit different all along or is there someplace where something changed? Did something happen that sent your life off along a different track from the one I know about?’

  19. Monster

  Wednesday, 8.43pm:

  As they sat in the bistro, the two men worked their way through Harper’s early years without much trouble; nothing he said conflicted with the stories Brendan had heard from his alter ego. Next, he related his decision to leave home and get a job as a trainee journalist on a small paper in Oxfordshire. A few jobs followed, each for a slightly bigger newspaper.

  ‘I didn’t have any real career plan,’ said Harper. ‘I never really considered where I wanted to end up. I never cared about working on the nationals or moving into TV. I suppose I used to just work somewhere until I got bored with the place or something else came up.’

  He paused to top up their glasses with the last of the second bottle. It was far more than he had drunk for a long time but the alcohol did not seem to be affecting him anything like he would have expected. He did not think much about it; putting his feeling of relative sobriety down to the drink being absorbed by the amount of food he had eaten.

  ‘I remember when I took this job it was because I was approaching thirty and I’d never worked on a daily. I always remember thinking that daily paper journalists used to act as if they were a bit more special. I suppose I thought I’d see whether it was any different.’ He grinned. ‘And I still reckon the only real difference is you have to work twice as hard for hardly any more money.’

  Brendan nodded. ‘True enough. They certainly expect us snappers to be in at least two places at the same time.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘I suppose what shook me out of my rut was when my dad died.’

  Brendan did a double take but Harper wasn’t looking at his friend’s face. ‘We’d never been really close when I was growing up and I always thought I was a bit of a disappointment to him. I never did that well at school or went to university. I always had this feeling that whatever I did it wouldn’t match up to his expectations, so it was easier not to try. Either that or do the opposite of what he wanted.’

  Harper stared ruefully into his wine. ‘I guess I only really appreciated him when he died. I suppose it made me grow up seeing him lying there in hospital. Made me realise that you don’t have forever. It’s easy to drift through life and I started to wonder what kind of person I would be by the time it was me lying there in his place, what I would have achieved.’

  ‘But Danny…’

  Harper shook his head. ‘Seeing him lying there with tubes going in his mouth and all the monitors around his bed and stuff is something I’ll never forget. I’d always been a bit scared of him and suddenly he looked all pale and frail, not so big somehow. I talked to my mum loads over the next few days and it was her that made me realise that my dad didn’t look down on me. It was because he loved me that he pushed me. He couldn’t put it into words in some modern touchy-feely way. He saw being a father as a duty and that included…’

  Harper fell silent. His mouth opened again and his eyes widened. He stared across the room then glanced around, looking to see the reactions of the other people in the room.

  ‘Danny…’

  Ha
rper held his hand out to silence Brendan without looking at him, his gaze still fixed on the other side of the bistro.

  ‘My god!’ he hissed.

  Brendan frowned and twisted round to look. ‘What is it?’ he said softly.

  Harper looked agitated. ‘What the hell’s he doing in here?’ he said in an undertone. ‘How did he get out?’

  ‘Who?’ Brendan turned his head, unable to work out who was the sudden focus of Harper’s attention.

  Harper leant forward.

  ‘Sat to the left of the bar,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t see him before. There was some couple sitting in the way.’

  Brendan looked confused. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  Harper leant across the table and directed one finger in a pistol aim across the room, guiding Brendan’s eyes to a lone diner on the other side of the bistro.

  ‘There. Van Hell.’

  ‘Who?

  ‘Van Hell.’

  ‘Van Hulle? The developer?’

  Harper nodded, eyes fixed on the seated figure.

  ‘What about him?’ said Brendan.

  ‘What’s he doing out? They can’t have let him out on bail, surely?’

  Brendan shook his head and turned back to face Harper. ‘What are you talking about, boy? What’s the man supposed to have done?’

  Harper looked baffled. ‘Don’t you know what…’ He stopped as a kind of comprehension dawned. He turned and stared at Brendan, who raised his eyebrows. Harper leant forward and put his face in his hands. ‘Oh shit!’ he muttered.

  Brendan gave a light chuckle. ‘Come on, boy. It can’t be that bad surely.’

  ‘Bad?’ Harper’s expression was one of queasy disbelief and Brendan’s eyes widened. He leant forward into a conspiratorial huddle.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ he asked. ‘What do you think he’s done?’

  Harper looked up. ‘Murder.’

  ‘Murder? Holy mother of god!’ Brendan tensed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Not who.’ Harper shook his head and gave an empty laugh. ‘You should be asking how many?’

  ‘Oh shit.’