I was heading for home and my Mac when Sheila called on my mobile. Mindful of my precarious legal position, I pulled over to take the call.
'Where are you?' she said.
'Almost home.'
'Can I visit? I've got something to celebrate.'
She was waiting out front when I arrived. She put her arms around me and we kissed. Then she pulled back, pointing to my armpit.
'Is that what I think it is?'
'For protection only. Come in and tell me what's happened.'
I thought it was going to be something legal-applying for the document Viv had mentioned, or a positive result from the divorce records search, but her manner and her clothes told me something different. She was wearing a blue silk dress with a faux fur jacket. She'd had something done to her hair and her shoes looked new. She moved with the same grace as before but perhaps more confidently. No whiff of tobacco smoke. She produced a bottle of champagne from her bag and waved it in my face.
'I got the part.'
Her face was alight with happiness and it communicated directly to me. I reached for her and we kissed again. It had been a long time since I'd had what has to be one of the great human experiences-the blending and sharing of sexual and emotional and professional pleasure. It had happened a few times before-when Lily won a Walkley award for journalism; when Glen Withers got a police promotion; when Helen Broadway's vineyard scored a gold medal; when Cyn had got a commission to design a building. I hadn't expected to feel it again, but here it was.
We opened and poured and drank. She told me about the role in the film she'd auditioned for-the avenging mother in a thriller about a miscarriage of justice. She said she needed to project sex and danger and cracked it at the audition.
'I have to thank you, Cliff.'
'How's that?'
'You supplied the sex charge and you still aren't sure that I didn't arrange to have Patrick killed, are you?'
I'd taken off my jacket, removed the shoulder rig, stowed it away, and taken out the notebook I'd opened just that morning to keep track of what I was doing. My habit was to write down the names of the people I was dealing with under the case heading and draw connecting arrows and dots between them indicating possible guilt, possible lies, gaps in information. I showed her the dotted lines running from her name.
'What's that mean?'
'What you said-a maybe.'
'What's this?'
I'd drawn a line through the information about James O'Day, the fire at the hotel in Hamilton, and the aggrieved publican.
'No connection,' I said. I was high on adrenalin and alcohol. 'Case closed.'
'But not for me?'
'Not yet.'
We made love. It was slower this time but just as good. Only other difference was that she was careful with her clothes- new underwear, too. Amazing what a change a bit of good luck can make. She didn't even mention the legal advice she'd had from Viv until after we'd dressed and were thinking of where to go for dinner. We agreed on walking to the Indian in Glebe Point Road.
'Your lawyer mate was helpful,' she said.
'Done anything about it yet?'
'No, but on the strength of this job I'll be able to get someone good, not poor old Harvey. What have you been doing with yourself?'
I told her about my possible nemesis, Szabo, and the reason for carrying the gun. Didn't mention the parcels from the UK or the night in the lock-up. She smoothed down her dress and glanced at the cupboard where I'd put the pistol.
'Are you going to take it with you now?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
I shook my head, didn't want to go into the details.
'Might help me to get in character,' she said. 'Sorry, I know it's serious. That's the trouble with this business, confusing make-believe with reality.'
I thought about that as we walked. She took my arm proprietorily. With her height, stylish clothes and gleaming hair, she turned heads. Was this make-believe or reality? We all play roles, but actors can play them more convincingly than most.
I ate my fill; she ate much less.
'Have to watch my figure. This bitch I'm playing's thin as a snake, acts like one, too. Have to do some jogging, which I hate. What d'you do to the keep the flab down?'
'Gym, walking, bit of tennis. Light on the carbs.'
She pointed to my plate. 'I didn't notice.'
'You ate so little I didn't want them to think we didn't enjoy the meal.'
We walked back briskly against a cold wind. We turned into my street and she stopped. 'I'm parked just here, Cliff. Do you want me to stay the night?'
I put my arm around her. 'I insist.'
I turned on a couple of heaters and made coffee while she wandered around looking at the books, the DVDs and CDs. She examined the photograph of Lily I had propped up on a shelf but made no comment. She went over to the corkboard and stopped in her tracks. She pointed to the photograph of the malevolent Sean Cassidy at the ceilidh.
'Jesus Christ, what's this doing here?'
I poised the plunger over the coffee. 'It was taken in Ireland. That guy was staring at Patrick as if he wanted to kill him. I just wondered…'
'I'm not surprised.'
'You know him?'
'I should. That's Seamus Cummings. Older. And God he's got thin, but that's him.'
I forgot about the coffee. 'How do you know him?'
She turned away from the board and got milk from the fridge.
'Sheila?'
'I thought from the way we… went about things, we weren't going into our past histories.' She pointed to Lily's photograph.
'This is different.'
She poured milk into the mugs. 'How?'
'I still want to find out who killed Patrick.'
'I thought you'd decided he was trying to kill you.'
'I haven't decided anything.'
She lowered the plunger, waited the required time and poured. 'Mmm, me either. I don't know if I want to go into it.'
It was one of those moments when something, apparently promising, potentially solid, can fracture at a word or a gesture. I was still unsure about Sheila but I didn't want that to happen. My feelings for her and the hope I felt were too strong. I'd blown these moments too often in the past by reacting too quickly. I slowed down, picked up the mug and blew gently on the surface to cool it. She took her mug and did the same, looking past me, back at the photograph.
'It's all right, Sheila,' I said. 'You don't have to tell me.'
She smiled. We were both tired and affected by the emotional pulls and tugs. Some strands of her well-managed hair had come loose and made her look younger, more vulnerable. I wanted badly to touch her and I think she sensed this.
'Cost you a bit to say that, lover, didn't it?'
I shrugged, drank some coffee.
'Tough guy. Our break-up, Paddy's and mine, was a protracted business, with infidelities on both sides and brief reconciliations. One of my affairs-didn't last and I went back to Paddy briefly-was with him. Seamus Cummings.'