Perfect Match Read online

  ‘Luke?’

  ‘As far as I know, you only have the one,’ said Fox, reminding Solomon of her acid disdain.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ Solomon said, looking across his living room at Luke and putting a finger to his lips. ‘Why?’

  ‘Could you tell me when you last saw him?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Solomon. ‘At the hospital. Is there a problem?’

  Luke frowned at him, lifted his hands, What’s going on? Solomon shook his head, turned slightly.

  ‘And when did you last speak to him?’

  Solomon thought before answering, his natural suspicion of authority taking over, his instinct to protect his family. Was there anything to be gained by obfuscating? Probably not. ‘Last night.’

  ‘Did he say anything? About what he was doing, where he was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? What did you talk about?’

  ‘Our sister. I imagine that you remember her. You’re investigating her case, or at least you’re supposed to be.’ As Solomon said the words, he closed his eyes, aware that Fox wasn’t somebody worth antagonizing.

  ‘I’m aware of my duties, thank you,’ said Fox. ‘But right now I have another case to deal with. And this one seems rather more clear-cut.’

  ‘Please,’ said Solomon. ‘Could you just tell me what it is you want?’

  ‘I want to speak to your brother, Luke Mullan,’ said Fox. ‘Because a little over three hours ago, the body of Robert Lee White was found, murdered. Stabbed to death. And right now, your brother’s name is top of a very short list. So, again. Do you have any idea where he might be?’

  Solomon turned back to look at his brother. Luke was watching him closely, knew that something was going down.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Solomon.

  ‘I’m not sure that I believe you,’ said Fox.

  ‘I imagine that in your line of work you often have to deal with ambiguity,’ replied Solomon.

  Fox ignored this, said instead, ‘You have my number. I urge you to get in contact with your brother and let us speak to him.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Solomon.

  Fox didn’t reply immediately, then said at last, with a heavy dose of sarcasm, ‘Thank you.’

  She hung up and Solomon looked at the screen of his phone for some time, at arm’s length, he didn’t know why, then glanced up at his brother. Luke, he thought. What happened last night?

  Robbie White couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know exactly why. Because he was lying on a thin mattress on a metal floor. Because he only had one blanket, and it wasn’t long enough to cover him. And because he was pissed off, pissed off to have to be hiding in the back of a mate’s Transit van, parked in a lay-by on a quiet country road like a fucking illegal immigrant. Plus he needed a leak but couldn’t be bothered to get out and do it in the hedge. Fucking Luke Mullan. He should have done something about him a long time ago, only he hadn’t, because Luke Mullan was a proper legit nutcase and Robbie White installed satellite dishes. And fucked Luke’s sister, which did help, he had to admit. Had helped, before she dumped him, made him look like he couldn’t control his women. And now he was lying on a thin mattress in the back of a van, and he was scared. Because Luke Mullan was scary, and what he’d seen the other night, what he’d seen done to Tiff, that was scary too, only he shouldn’t have been there in the first place because he wasn’t allowed anywhere near Tiff any more, so he couldn’t actually say anything. The situation, this whole situation, was completely fucked up.

  He heard a car approach, slow down, stop just behind him. The engine sound continued for a few seconds, then cut off. What time was it? He looked at his watch, squinted at the illuminated dials. Two twenty. He almost groaned, but that was another thing, he couldn’t make any noise. Because he was hiding, like some kind of rat. Christ.

  A car door opened, then closed with a dull thump. He breathed shallowly, the better to listen. Was that footsteps? He strained to hear, turning his head slightly like his ears were aerials, trying to pick up a faint signal, then jumped as a hand banged against the side of the van, a deep metallic boom reverberating inside. Robbie White lay back down, still, mouthing fuck fuck fuck fuck, eyes closed tight. How had he found him? Who knew he was even here except Andy, who’d given him his keys? Andy wouldn’t have said anything. Except that this was Luke Mullan he was talking about, and if Luke Mullan wanted to find something out, there wasn’t a lot anyone could do.

  The hand banged again, and immediately afterwards a voice. ‘Immigration. We need you to open up.’

  It wasn’t Luke’s voice, that was sure. This voice was clear, sounded … not posh, but, yeah, clear. Loud and clear.

  ‘In accordance with the Immigration Act 1993 we have the legal right to effect entry into this vehicle,’ the voice said. ‘We would ask you to open up before that necessity.’

  And the voice spoke like exactly the kind of twat who went around at two in the morning looking for people to harass, figured Robbie. Well, look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t Luke Mullan. And since he wasn’t an illegal immigrant, what did he have to worry about? He hadn’t even been asleep.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Give us a second.’

  He groped around and found his top, put it on, pulled on trainers. He used the light of his mobile’s screen to find the keys, stood up as far as he could and blipped the van’s doors open.

  ‘It’s unlocked,’ he said.

  The rear doors opened and Robbie looked down at a man in a hi-vis coat, glasses, clipboard in one hand, illuminated from behind by his car’s sidelights. Call that a job? Robbie thought. Scurrying about at night, banging on the side of trucks?

  ‘Listen, I ain’t an immigrant,’ he said.

  ‘If you could just step out of the van, sir,’ the man said.

  ‘You ain’t got nothing better to do?’ said Robbie, bravado flooding back now he knew he hadn’t been found by Luke Mullan, only some immigration jobsworth. ‘I told you, I ain’t an immigrant.’

  ‘Say you so?’ said the man.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come on now.’

  ‘Fuck sake.’

  He put both arms up against the frame of the van and jumped down. But as he did so he heard the man shout something, Choo now it sounded like, and felt a punch in his side. He looked down to see that the man in the hi-vis jacket had stabbed him, the knife buried to its hilt halfway up his ribs. His legs gave way beneath him and the next thing he could see was the gravel of the lay-by in front of him, his head lying on tarmac. There was a metal bottle top in front of his eyes and he blinked at it slowly.

  ‘Did you speak?’ The voice came from far above him. Robbie didn’t answer. He couldn’t inhale properly, could hear his breath coming in wheezes, weak, like trying to inflate a punctured football, just couldn’t be done.

  ‘Or is the world yet unknowing?’ The man squatted and Robbie could see his shoes, trainers. Nike. He tried to breathe again but it hurt, tried smaller breaths, panting like a tired dog.

  ‘I know you saw what happened,’ the man said. ‘But you didn’t tell, did you? Did you?’

  But Robbie couldn’t speak and the man tutted to himself, stood back up, pushed at Robbie’s shoulder with his trainer. ‘No medicine in the world can do you good,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t give you half an hour.’

  Robbie closed his eyes and listened to the man get back into his car, the door close, the engine start, and the crunch of the tyres as it slowly pulled away, away into the distance, and he was unconscious by the time the sound of the car’s engine was gone.

  ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ said Luke. ‘Nothing. Swear to God. Christ, Solly, it’s not like I wouldn’t tell you.’ He frowned at Solomon. ‘Why wouldn’t I tell you?’

  Solomon didn’t answer, rubbed his good eye instead. This made things very complicated. Made everything complicated, almost exponentially. It was exactly what he didn’t need right now, what neither of them needed. Robbie White. Even dead,
it appeared, he could prove an irritation.

  ‘Okay, listen. You need to leave, get out of here. Don’t go home, don’t go to the lock-up, they’ll be looking for you there.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Luke.

  ‘So, go to the caravan. It’s got everything you need.’ He paused, thought. ‘You’ll need a charger.’

  ‘Got one in the car.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Two streets away.’

  ‘Okay. You need to go. Don’t take the A12, there are too many cameras. Call me when you get there. On the work phone, obviously.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Solomon walked to his bedroom, opened his wardrobe and took out a hooded top. The only kind of top he had. He had hundreds of them. No he didn’t, he had twenty-three, but still. He had a lot. He walked back to the living room, where Luke was sitting.

  ‘Here. Put this on, don’t show your face.’

  ‘Solly?’

  ‘Keep it pointed down.’

  ‘Solly.’

  ‘At the ground. The cameras are above.’

  ‘Solly. Fuck’s sake shut up and listen. You remember I told you, at the hospital, I had problems.’

  Solomon tilted his head, frowned and thought back. Back to the hospital, to Tiff’s room, Luke looking tired, hung-over. Telling him about something he had going on. Nothing good was how he’d described it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve fucked up,’ Luke said. ‘A bit.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Been playing in the wrong sandpit.’ He laughed, but his eyes looked bleak and worried.

  ‘Meaning?’ said Solomon, not interested in Luke’s childish metaphors. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’ve got some business …’ He paused, corrected himself. ‘Had some business. With a guy who, you know, I probably shouldn’t be dealing with.’

  ‘So stop.’

  ‘I will. I am.’ Luke sighed, sat forward and rubbed his scalp with interlocked hands. ‘Jesus. This is a fucking mess. You know?’

  ‘Luke, why are you telling me this?’ Solomon had a bad feeling, a sudden sense that he, they, his whole family were a lot closer to the edge of a precipice than he’d realized.

  ‘Just so, you know. I might need your help.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I know. You don’t get involved. But this time … Just stay by the phone, Solly. I might need you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Solomon, not feeling okay about it, not at all, something his brother picked up on. Not that it was hard to pick.

  ‘No, not okay. Not Solomon okay-it’ll-be-okay-maybe. I need you to stand up right now. I need you. Tiff, she needs you. Yes?’

  Solomon didn’t like the sound of this, didn’t like it at all. But he nodded and looked at Luke, met his eye and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘The phone. Stay by it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Luke stood up and pulled Solomon’s hood down over his head, rubbed the top of it. ‘It’ll be cool.’

  ‘Okay,’ Solomon said again, couldn’t think of anything else to say. Luke turned to leave and Solomon watched his brother go, close the door behind him. For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt quite alone, and quite scared.

  fourteen

  WHEN SOLOMON HEARD THE BUZZ OF HIS INTERCOM, HE assumed that it was the police, come to put the pressure on him, face to face. He didn’t often get people buzzing his apartment, didn’t do visitors. Wasn’t keen on the outside world in general.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Solomon? It’s Marija.’

  Marija. Solomon was lost for a moment, then remembered with an almost overwhelming dismay that this was the make-up artist, the one that Dr Mistry had recommended to him. He’d called her, arranged for her to come over. Why? Why had he done it? He’d felt like a teenager ringing a girl for the first time, had hung up once before the call had had a chance to connect. On the second attempt, he’d listened to it ring the other end with his eyes closed in near panic. And now she was here.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is it all right to come in?’

  No, thought Solomon, no, it really isn’t. No way. I can’t do this. He felt sick, genuinely felt like he might vomit. This stranger, this woman, wanted to come up to his apartment and look at him. Examine his face. The thought was too appalling to bear.

  ‘I …’ he said, and stopped. He felt paralysed by fear and dread, entirely unequal to it.

  ‘We can talk,’ Marija said. She sounded gentle. ‘You don’t have to show me, if you don’t want to.’

  Solomon didn’t answer, and after a moment of silence, Marija said, ‘I understand. If you’d like me to go, it’s not a problem. No big deal.’

  No big deal. Perhaps it was this turn of phrase that got through to Solomon, made him step back from himself, look for some perspective. No big deal. So why couldn’t he just buzz her up? Well, he could. He could. He really could. And he kept the momentum of this thought just long enough to put out a finger and press the button with the key sign on it. There. It was too late now. She was coming up. Deal with it.

  Did it make it worse that she was young and attractive? thought Solomon, as he showed her through to his living room. Or did it make it better? Or didn’t it matter? He was having strange thoughts, his mind in mild panic, experiencing tunnel vision. A pretty dark-haired lady was about to look at his face, really look at it, look at it properly.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Marija from behind Solomon.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, trying to keep his voice normal, or at least close. To his critical ears, it came out more of a bleat, a frightened goat tethered in a clearing, waiting for some passing apex predator to have done with him. Calm down, he told himself. It’ll be okay. It’s no big deal.

  He made a clumsy gesture at one of his armchairs, and Marija sat down. She had a case with her, a flight case, black and metal. Real-looking. Far too real-looking for Solomon’s agitated liking. Solomon stood, and Marija smiled and said, ‘Cup of tea would be nice.’

  Making tea calmed Solomon, talking to himself in the imperative, keeping doubt and anxiety at bay. Put the kettle on. Find cups. Introduce water. Steep. Steep some more. Stop thinking. Provide sugar. Sniff milk. Stop thinking. It was safe in the kitchen. The danger lurked outside, in his living room. How long did it take to make tea? Not long enough, was the answer he reluctantly came to, and he breathed deeply, picked up the first tray of tea he’d ever prepared in his apartment and carried it through to where Marija waited for him.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Marija. ‘So. What do you know about me?’

  ‘Only what you told me on the phone,’ said Solomon quietly, sitting down on the armchair next to her, focusing on the tray on the table in front of them. ‘You’ve done this kind of thing before.’

  ‘Many times,’ she said. ‘You probably think that it must be terrible for me, to have to look at all those injured faces.’

  Solomon nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it isn’t,’ said Marija. ‘It’s my job, and a job I love. Because I can make a difference, and that’s what matters to me.’

  Solomon nodded again, didn’t answer.

  ‘I won’t be shocked,’ she said. ‘Or horrified, or appalled, or disgusted. I promise you I won’t. You said it was an acid attack.’

  ‘Sulphuric.’

  ‘I know what that does,’ Marija said. ‘I’ve seen it before. Your eyes?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Any vision left?’

  Solomon shrugged. ‘Light, sometimes. If it’s very bright.’

  ‘Think you can take your hood down?’

  Solomon didn’t move for a moment, then reached up and pushed back his running-top’s hood. The way he was sitting, Marija could only see the side of his face. His good side.

  ‘I guess it’s the other side we’re concerned with,’ she said.

  Solomon nodded.

  ‘Do you want to turn, or shall I get up and walk around?’ she asked.

  Sol
omon closed his eyes, took a breath, and turned to look at Marija. The only reaction he saw from her was one of curiosity. Professional interest, he supposed.

  ‘Looks like you got water onto it quickly,’ she said. ‘Before it got too deep.’

  Solomon thought back to Luke’s kitchen, the sink, desperately splashing water from the tap. ‘Pretty quickly.’

  ‘You go out much?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like to?’

  Solomon considered the question. It wasn’t something he’d ever really thought about. He had accepted his fate quickly and without ambiguity. He was monstrous and people mustn’t see him. Ergo, he mustn’t go out. No debate to be had, none necessary. ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘On what I can look like. On how people will react.’

  ‘And how do they react? At the moment?’

  ‘Poorly,’ said Solomon.

  Marija laughed. ‘They’ll do that, people,’ she said. ‘There’s something about faces. Okay,’ she said, suddenly all business. ‘I’ll be honest. I’ve seen a lot worse. I can help you look more …’ She hesitated. ‘Well, normal, let’s say it how it is.’

  Solomon nodded in silent thanks for her honesty, her lack of sugar-coating.

  ‘The question is, would you like me to?’

  Don’t think about Kay, Solomon said to himself. This isn’t about her, has nothing to do with her. This is about – what was it Dr Mistry had said? His entitlement to a normal life.

  ‘I think so,’ he said.

  ‘In that case,’ Marija said, ‘how about we make a start now?’

  Just the week before, Marija told Solomon as she painted on foundation matched to the colour of his good skin, she’d been working with an ex-lance corporal who had been trapped inside a burning patrol vehicle in Afghanistan, the rest of his squad either dead or pinned down by enemy gunfire. She smoothed the foundation with a sponge and told him that the man, the lance corporal, had burns so bad that he needed to wear a transparent mask for eighteen hours a day or the pain would be so great that he would be reduced to tears. And he was the bravest man she had ever met, not somebody who cried easily. She said that there was little she could do for him, but sometimes just talking, just that could help. Sometimes.