Where There's Smoke

“There’s your answer, then. Just keep your head down and keep saying, ‘No comment.’ The murder’s old news, now. They’ll get bored if you don’t give them anything new to write.”

The Inspector was right, but sooner than he could have expected. In the afternoon Clive came up to tell her that the waiting photographers and journalists had gone. “They just all took off at once,” he said. “Something else must have happened.”

The incident was in the evening news, a block of flats that had collapsed, providing scenes of carnage and death for the eager press. Kate was all but forgotten. Some of the papers ran small pieces on her the following day, but they were little more than recaps of the first and completely overshadowed by coverage of the more dramatic story.

The damage had been done, though. When she arrived at work next morning, the post had already been delivered.

There was no sign of Clive, and Kate huddled under her umbrella as she opened the mailbox and took out the selection of envelopes. She recognised the Parker Trust’s expensive stationery straight away. Unlocking the office, she left her umbrella to drip onto the floor and sat down behind a desk without taking off her coat or switching on the lights.

The other envelopes were ignored as she slit open the thick white one with a plastic paper-knife. Rain rattled against the window like hail as she withdrew the letter.

It was brief and to the point. The Trust regretted that, in view of the recent negative publicity received by herself and her agency, they were withdrawing their account. Such publicity was contrary to the Trust’s interests, as had already been made clear to her. While not wanting to appear in any way judgemental, it was nevertheless felt that there was no option but to terminate the Trust’s relationship with Powell PR & Marketing.

Kate could hear Redwood’s desiccated voice as she read it. She reached for the phone, then stopped. Her umbrella dripped onto the floor with the slow insistence of a clock.

The window rattled as a gust of wind struck it. She lowered the letter.

The door opened and Clive came in. He closed it quickly against the blast of cold air and rain. Kate drew herself up, preparing to tell him, when she saw his travel bag. Then she noticed his face.

“Clive? What’s wrong?”

He had made no attempt to take off his wet coat. He stood awkwardly, not looking at her.

“I’ve got to go up to Newcastle.” His voice was raw. “My mum phoned last night. My brother’s been in a car crash. He’s, uh... he’s been killed.”

Kate just stared at him. The inadequate I’m sorry went unsaid.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “The thing is, I don’t know how long it’ll be. The funeral’s got to be fixed, and—”

He broke off, covering his eyes. Kate saw his shoulders spasm. She quickly put the letter back in the envelope before he could see it.

He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I know it’s come at a bad time. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just take as long as you need.” She didn’t know what to say to him. “You didn’t have to come here to tell me. You could have just phoned.”

He adjusted his grip on the travel bag. “The train’s from King’s Cross, anyway. There’s one in half an hour that’ll get me there for dinnertime.”

“Have you got a ticket?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You’d better go. I don’t want you to miss it.”

Clive nodded but didn’t move. Kate came out from behind the desk, slipping the envelope into her pocket as she went over and gave him a hug. He returned it, then they broke apart.

“I’ll phone you.”

He went out. The umbrella still dripped onto the carpet, but more slowly now. Kate switched on the lights and started the coffee filter, then went down to the kitchen and stood her umbrella in the sink before going back upstairs to her office.

The letter from the Parker Trust crinkled in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the envelope without removing the letter. Abruptly, she tore it in half, ripping it into smaller and smaller pieces that she flung from her. They fluttered to the floor like dead moths as she snatched up her handbag and began pawing through it.

She pulled out the old packet of Camels. Her hands were unsteady as she put a cigarette between her lips and tried to get a flame from the lighter. It clicked, drily.

“Shit! Come on!” She banged it on the desk and shook it. The next flick produced a yellow smudge. She held it up to the cigarette, poised for a moment, and then with a sudden dip of her head put the tip into the flame.

It glowed brightly. A thin ring of fire chased towards her, leaving behind a fragile cylinder of pale ash as she drew the smoke down into her lungs. The cigarette was stale, but there was an instant nicotine hit. Her head swam, and for the space of a heartbeat she held her breath, letting the feeling soak through her. Then she was gagging. The smoke burned the back of her throat and nose as she choked and coughed. Eyes streaming, she stubbed out the cigarette in a half-empty teacup.