The Deep Dark Sleep

I met Fiona White for tea at Cranston’s. We sat in the Art Nouveau tearoom and ordered tea and salmon sandwiches. She was wearing a smart outfit that I hadn’t seen her in before and what looked like a new hat. I also noticed that she was wearing a deeper shade of crimson lipstick and more make-up than I’d seen her wear before. I was flattered by the effort.

‘How are your new digs?’ she asked, a little awkwardly.

‘Very exclusive,’ I said. ‘I have to be constantly careful that I don’t bark, talk in brogue or tan too deeply.’

She made a puzzled face. A pretty, puzzled face.

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’ll do me in the meantime. It keeps me dry, unless I get too close to the landlord when he’s talking.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘There’s been no one around the house. No one suspicious, I mean,’ she added. ‘I’ve noticed the local bobby keeping an eye on us, but there really hasn’t been anything to cause me any concern.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I’m sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced by all of this, Mrs White.’

‘Fiona …’ she said in a quiet voice that cracked halfway through the word. She cleared her throat. Her face reddened. ‘You don’t have to call me Mrs White. Call me Fiona.’

‘In that case, you don’t have to call me Mr Lennox.’

‘What shall I call you then?’

‘Lennox. Everybody does. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, Fiona.’

‘It’s no inconvenience. But the girls have missed you around the house.’

‘Just the girls?’

For a second, I got a hint of the frosty defiance I’d been accustomed to. Then it melted.

‘No, not just the girls. Why don’t you come back to your rooms? I don’t think there’s any danger.’

‘You didn’t see the guy who jumped me. There’s something going on with this Strachan thing that I don’t understand. But I’m beginning to get ideas and those ideas tell me that there are some very dangerous people involved. I don’t want to place you or the girls at risk.’

‘Listen, Lennox, I’ve thought about what you said to me, about how you felt. I’m sorry if I seemed a little … unresponsive. I said the things I said because I meant them. Or at least I meant them when I said them. It’s just that … I don’t know, just that I’m not the kind of woman you’re used to. I’m not experienced with men or sophisticated in any sense. When I married Robert, I thought that was it. I saw my entire life ahead of me; how it would be. That’s what I thought I wanted back then. Then, when he was killed, it wasn’t just that I’d lost him, I’d lost myself. What I had decided I wanted to be.’

‘I know you’re not going to believe this, Fiona, but I know exactly what you mean. A lot of us lost our way during the war, became people we didn’t know we could be. Didn’t want to be. But that’s the hand we were dealt. All we can do is make the most of it. Nothing can bring your husband back and nothing can take away the things I did in the war. But we can try to move on. To find some kind of happiness.’

‘I think you should come back.’ Fiona looked down at the tablecloth. ‘I can’t promise you anything, say anything will change. But I would like you to come back.’

‘I want that too, Fiona, but I can’t. Not yet. I have messed up so many things in my life, but I’m damned if I’m going to mess this up. I’ll be back as soon as I am sure I’m not going to bring a lot of trouble home with me.’

‘But for all we know, the man who attacked you still thinks you live at home. If anything we’re in more danger without you being there.’

‘This is more than one man. And they’re clever operators and they know I’m not there any more. I’m just hoping they haven’t traced me to where I am now.’

‘The police …’

‘Can’t help me. At least not officially, and I think I’ve squeezed the last drop of goodwill out of Jock Ferguson. Listen, it’ll be over soon and I’ll come back.’ I laid my hand on hers. It tensed, as if she was going to pull away, then relaxed. ‘Then we can talk.’

*

I went back to my office to finish up a few things before heading back to my temporary accommodation at the boarding house. I was just taking my raincoat off the coat rack when someone swung open my office door without first knocking. I turned and my heart sank. I suddenly realized that not conceiving of anyone worse than Hammer Murphy to share my company with only highlighted the limits of my imagination.

The man in front of me was six foot three and in his early fifties. He had broad shoulders and a brutal, cruel face. He was, as he had been every time I’d encountered him, dressed with precise and totally unimaginative neatness. In tweed. He decided to take the weight off his brogues without waiting to be asked. Like not knocking on a door before entering, waiting to be invited to sit down was something that Detective Chief Superintendent Willie McNab did not do.