Following a third glass of whisky, Bryan finally scraped back the patio chair and sloped off into the house. Through the opened kitchen door, he glimpsed his wife as she rinsed a colander of potatoes at the sink. He paused his step for a moment to admire the still shapely behind and the loosely coiled auburn hair which reached down to the small of her back. What was that saying? You don't know what you've got till it's gone? Only, it wasn't true - not in his case, anyway. He knew full well he didn't deserve a wife as pretty and as smart as Melanie, had always known it, but a midlife crisis was just the most devilish of things. A hand which sneaked up behind you, shoved you off your chosen course. There was little a man could do about it.
He was resetting the whisky decanter onto its silver tray on the sideboard in the living room when the phone began to ring.
"I'll get it," he called.
As he headed over to the side table to sweep up the receiver, he wondered if it might be Oliver. That would be expecting too much perhaps. No, a much more likely bet was that complete cow of his mother-in-law, or else his secretary Rose to inform him of some late-afternoon hiccup in the supply chain.
It was a complete shock therefore - a veritable gob-smacker, no less - to hear the hushed, solemn and distinctly sub-continental voice of Shivay Gupta on the other end of the line.
"Good afternoon, Mr Dixon."
"Shivay! But what... I mean, what's going on? Have they.... have they released you?"
For a moment, his heart soared. Not only was the good name of the company untarnished, but he would no longer have to worry about the repayment of the loan he'd stumped up.
"Mr Dixon, I need you to listen, okay? To just shut up a minute and listen."
There was something to Gupta's tone - a hissed insubordination, an ominous sense of menace - which was quite unsettling. Those hard edges of reality once more sharpened through the whisky haze.
"What's going on, Bryan? Have they...? I mean, is he...?"
This second voice - its contrast in both tone and gender to Gupta's - was for a moment confusing. Lifting his gaze, Bryan located his wife there at the living room door - an opened bag of frozen peas in her hands, her expression one of tense engagement. She'd obviously heard him exclaim Shivay's name, had come scampering through from the kitchen.
He gestured with an urgent, flapping hand that she should shut the bloody hell up, let him concentrate.
"Okay Shivay, I'm listening, I promise. What's... I mean... where are you?"
"I'm still in custody, Mr Dixon. About to confess."
"About to confess?"
Over at the doorway came a dull thud as the bag of peas crashed to the floor, spilled its contents out across the carpet.
"He's about to confess!"
Bryan shot his wife an irate glower. "Just shut it, would you Melanie! Let me talk to him."
Gupta's voice hissed once more into his ear. "Your wife's there?"
"Yea, she's just here at the---"
"Tell her to go away. This needs to private. Just me and you, man to man."
Bryan turned back to her, screwed his face up in unambiguous irritation. His hand swept back and forth, his mouth silently repeating the same monosyllable: go, go, go...
Finally she got the message, turned on her heels, swept away from view. Left the spilled peas there all across the doorway.
"She's gone, Shivay, I swear. It's just you and me. But, I mean, you're... you're really going to confess?"
Shivay's voice was calm and even, disquietingly so, as if announcing he was going down to the corner shop for a pint of milk.
"Yes, really."
"So... so you did it then? You killed those poor women?"
"Does it really matter if I killed them or not? That's not what this is about. Was never what this is about."
But as an answer it was far too cryptic for Bryan to properly comprehend. He could only take it as a yes.
"But, I mean...Christ."
What else was there to say?
"I need you to write off the loan, Mr Dixon."
The sudden change of subject was surprising, caught him off guard. He attempted to gulp down the heightened drama of the moment, concentrate on the details.
"Five grand, Shivay. That's a lot of money even for me."
"I need you to write it off. My wife and daughter, they need you to write it off. How on earth are they supposed to survive otherwise?"
"Look, we could write off the interest, let's say. Yes, I... I think I could do that for you."
He couldn't believe the situation he was in, discussing details of a loan repayment with a man about to confess to double murder.
Out of the bay windows, he meanwhile caught sight of Melanie's Renault hatchback screeching off down the street. Where the hell was she going, he wondered? Wasn't she supposed to be putting on some lamb chops?
There was little time to reflect on it however.
"But that would still leave four grand or so," he continued. "I can't afford to write that much off, Shivay. I just can't."
It was true that the figure was a substantial one even for the managing director of a company the size of Dixon's Wool, but more than that it was the risk of association that worried him. If it was already bad for the company's image that it had harboured a murderous psycho among its ranks, it would be tantamount to corporate suicide to offer him financial charity. What if anyone found out? It'd be splashed all over the front pages of the tabloids in an instant.
"Then you leave me no choice, Mr Dixon. I'll just have to inform your wife about your affair with Yvonne from reception."
And there it was, the wicket ball. A perfectly executed leg cutter swooshing between bat and pad, clattering the middle stump from the ground.
"What are you... What are you talking about?"
"Oh, come now Mr Dixon, it's pointless to try denying it."
But that was exactly what Bryan was planning to do. "I have no idea what you're on about. I'm a happily married man, would never dream of---"
"I followed you out there once."
"What?"
"That hotel that charges by the hour across the road from Branstead station."
Oh Christ...
"It was some time last autumn," Gupta continued. "Late October I think, around mid-afternoon. I'd just nipped out the side door of the factory to toss an empty tub of detergent into the skip when I saw you and Yvonne heading out to your car. You both seemed a bit... you know, shifty. Looking round, checking no-one had spotted you. You couldn't see me though because I'd hidden myself around the side of the skip, was peering out from behind. After you set off, I saw you were headed in the direction of Branstead. I don't know, I suppose I saw an opportunity." There was a muted snort of irony. "Something I could use if I ever had need. So I got in my car, caught up with you as fast as I could. Stayed a couple of vehicles behind, followed you all the way there."
Bryan found himself stammering in search of a workable counter. "But even... even if this was true, how would you... how would you be able to prove it?"
"Well, I mean, it was obvious you weren't going to be there long. How long do these things take? Half an hour, an hour maximum. So I parked up across the road from the hotel and had a wander down the street. And lo and behold, there on the corner there's a little photography shop. Well, my daughter had been pestering me for months to buy her one of those instant cameras - you know, the sort where the photo comes out the slot at the bottom and magically comes to life as it's exposed to the light. So I thought I'd treat her, and in the meantime give it a little try out myself of course..."
Oh sweet Jesus, Bryan didn't like the sound of this. Didn't like the sound of it at all.
"So I got back in my car and waited. I'll be honest with you, the shot's a little blurred, but the name of the hotel's clear enough above the door. So are the two figures making their way down the entrance steps. Your hand's wrapped around Yvonne's waist."
"How can you prove the photo exists?"
"How can you prove it doesn't?"
It was a good point, one which Bryan knew he would be wise to keep in mind. The probability of the photograph's existence he estimated as fifty-fifty, maybe sixty-forty against, but whatever the case it was far too much of risk not to be taken very seriously indeed.
"Suppose I say I'm willing to believe such a photo might exist. If you're going to spend the rest of your life behind bars, how would you plan to get it in front of my wife's eyes?"
The response was instant enough to suggest that the scenario had indeed been reflected on and that the solution was a perfectly viable one.
"There's always my daughter, Prisha. It wouldn't be a problem for me to tell her where I've hidden it. I know your address - it's right here before me in the phone directory. That's how I found your number. All Prisha has to do is get on the bus one day when you're at the factory and your wife's at home, slip it through the letterbox."
That the guy was so desperate he'd be prepared to involve his own daughter in his sly little plot Bryan didn't doubt.
"From what I understand of these things," Shivay went on, "if your wife had valid grounds to claim divorce, she'd get a pretty sizeable cut of your assets. Would cost you a damn sight more than the five grand I'm asking."
This was also a good point, another which Bryan knew he would be wise to keep in mind.
He attempted one final counter.
"What if I told you that me and Yvonne have finished our little affair?"
"What if I told you that I don't care? What if I told you that your wife wouldn't care? What if I told you that a divorce lawyer wouldn't care?"
Again, all good points, and in any case it had been a barefaced lie.
"I've got Inspector Gooch outside the window tapping his watch at me. I need to know, Mr Dixon. The loan - are you willing to write it off?"
Bryan's sigh was weighted by the gravest of misgivings. "Christ, okay then. I'll write it off."
"I need you to swear on your son's life."
"Oh come on Shivay, we're not a pair of primary school kids in the playground. I'm a man of my word."
When it was to his advantage to be, he was at least.
But Shivay was insistent on this point. "Swear on your son's life, Bryan."
And so with a resigned sigh, he did so. And yes, the whole thing felt binding, like the dried, indelible ink of a signature at the bottom of a contract.
"Well, I guess it's time to say our goodbyes then Mr Dixon. I don't imagine we'll ever exchange words again."
"Look, I can't imagine what demons you've got in your head. What... what darkness. But good luck, okay. Good luck."
But the line had by this point gone dead.
After he'd placed the receiver back onto the cradle, Bryan expelled a slow, stuttering breath.
Stepped off then through the spilled, half-melted peas towards the whisky decanter.
*
With her back pressed against the corridor wall to allow them room to pass, Shields watched as the procession shuffled back towards the interrogation room. Kaur's expression was untroubled, strangely serene, as if the aim of his mysterious telephone call had been achieved. As he was led past her, he gave a respectful nod of the head, turned a lingering glance. She tried to meet it with an air of regret, communicate to him that she at least still harboured doubts, that the thinnest chink of light still remained. She could only hope he'd understood.
Beside her, Bridcutt pushed off from his own wall-leaning slouch. "Well, better get back to it. Should just be a formality from here."
After he'd slouched away to the males-only realm of the interrogation room, Shields twisted her neck back up the corridor, watched Sergeant Hodge at that moment re-enter the now vacated office where the call had taken place. As she scurried over to the doorway, he lifted the phone receiver to his ear.
"Sergeant Hodge from Branstead police station here. I need to know the last number called from this one please."
While the British Telecom assistant on the other end of the line got to it, Hodge glanced up at Shields. Hand clamped over the receiver, he mouthed a half whisper.
"The Inspector told me to see if we can identify who it was."
Yes, she'd thought as much, was keen to see if her hunch was correct.
A moment later, Hodge grasped a nearby biro, scribbled down the number onto a page margin of the newspaper which was opened out across his desk.
"Okay, thanks."
He reached then for the Branstead area phone directory on a shelf above his desk.
"I'm guessing his home number is the obvious place to start."
A hand began shuffling through the pages at roughly a third of the way through: G for Gupta
"He'll be granted a call home after he confesses," pointed out Shields. "Go back a bit. Dixon."
Hodge frowned. "His boss? Why the hell would he phone his boss for?"
"Just give it a try. Dixon, Bryan."
Hodge dutifully headed back down the alphabet, the shifting of the pages slowing as he neared his target.
"Here. Dixon, Bryan. 18 Cedar Drive, Ashby."
Ashby, thought Shields. A pretty little village between Dunwick and Southwold.
Hodge had meanwhile checked and double-checked the number. "Have to hand it to you, sergeant," he smiled. "That's the one alright."
She shrugged in fake modesty. "Female intuition. You men should put more faith in it."
"That's what my missus always says."
Before stepping back outside, there was something else Shields needed to check.
"When he was escorted in here did he open up the phone book at all?" It hadn't seemed that way from where she and Bridcutt had stood watching.
"No," confirmed Hodge. "Just picked up the receiver, dialled in the number."
She reflected on this a moment; didn't know why exactly, but felt sure it would prove significant somehow.
Female intuition again.
*
Time had always been a vague and relative concept to Melanie, something which pressed its weight on those around her but very rarely upon herself. She didn't even wear a watch; was one of those sorts of people who would much rather be late than have to rush, and to hell with the consequences. As such, driving quickly was something she had precious little experience of. The reality of being forced to recklessly disregard speed limits and basic road-user common sense was hair-raising. Life-threatening, even.
That she'd succeeded in slashing the usual twenty-five-minute journey time from Ashby to the centre of Branstead to barely a quarter of an hour without in fact killing herself was more through luck than judgement. A chorus of irate horns had beeped in her wake. Tyres had screeched to sudden halts. One desperately back-tracking pedestrian who'd attempted to step out across the road had yelled his colourfully worded desire that she meet her end by crashing into a lamppost.
She hadn't though, had somehow made it through unscathed and unrepentant. As she now pulled into the car park of Branstead police station, her heart plunged at the realisation that her efforts had been in vain.
There at the top of the entrance steps was the overweight inspector she recognised from the local news bulletins, a triumphant beam upon his face. Beneath him was a jostling rugby scrum of microphone-wielding journalists and TV crewmen with cameras perched on their shoulders.
After pulling to a stop, she banged her palms in frustration to the steering wheel.
Too late.
She'd got there too ruddy late.
*
It wasn't yet another knock at the door which served as a warning shot, had Advika's heart skittering like a forest deer caught in the cross-hairs. This time it was the sudden squeal of the telephone which sparked the plummeting screech of her soul.
She was at the kitchen sink scouring from various pots and pans the spice-browned remnants of the aloo gobi she'd prepared for lunch. As such, she hadn't expected to win the mother versus daughter race to lift the receiver from the wonky-legged side table next to the settee. Prisha was unreactive however, a huddled, embryonic form there in the armchair, her gaze unfocused. Comatose. Lost.
"Shivay is that you?"
But an affirmative wasn't necessary; just the faint rasp of his breath was proof of identity.
Prisha had in the meantime sat back upright, her mouth open, her eyes once more focused and alert.
"Advika..." Shivay began.
He didn't need to say more - the sad, pivotal fact of the matter was clear from the tone of his voice. Already, Advika could feel the sting of a first tear forming in her eye.