Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
M ac
“Cars?” I ask Shari as we sit in my office to quickly grab some lunch. “You like cars?”
I’m intrigued as to her knowledge so I’m burning to know, but I also need something else to think about other than the last couple of hours.
Hearing Levi’s story has left me with a deep urge to rip Winstanton’s head off. Doing so would solve several problems, but I doubt it would be seen as a public service. Below the feeling of raw violence and the need to cause pain, something else stirs. I have no idea what it cost Levi to tell his tale, but his strength and bravery in allowing that level of vulnerability for a higher cause tugs on strands of my soul I thought were buried long ago. There’s more to Levi than I originally thought, but I don’t want to examine those feelings—the ones I already have are giving me enough trouble.
Shari chuckles at my question. “All I wanted to be when I grew up was a racing driver.”
I try to hide my surprise. It’s not that I think she couldn’t—I’m sure Shari could do anything she put her mind to—but because it’s the first time she’s mentioned anything remotely like it. I don’t even know what car she drives.
“One of my earliest memories is of watching it on the telly with my dada. I don’t know why he liked it so much; he never told us. While my parents were working, we’d be with my grandparents, and Dada always had motorsports on. I think I was even more keen than my brother. When I was eighteen, for my birthday, I got to drive the Silverstone track. It was all I’d ever dreamed of doing.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask, taking a bite of my limp canteen sandwich, watching with more than a little envy as Shari opens a pot of something that smells delicious. Warm and spicy. She always has great food for lunch. She says her grandmother, or dadi ma as she calls her, makes most of it. Occasionally she’ll bring some for me, which I’m grateful for as prepping anything for lunch before I leave for work is not within my capability. I can testify that it’s delicious, but sadly, today I have to swallow my way through something that claims to be a ham sandwich, but I don’t dare look too closely.
“Good Indian girls don’t become racing drivers,” she says, affecting a much stronger accent than she normally has.
“Who says that?”
“My father.” She sighs in exasperation.
I decided to state the obvious.
“I thought you were British.”
“Exactly,” she says, prodding the air with her fork for emphasis. “Well, technically dual nationality, but my father will never get over the fact he’s the only one out of him and my uncles who wasn’t born on Indian soil.”
She takes another mouthful of food before continuing.
“When my dada died, I lost the only one who would listen to me talk about cars all day. Things might have been different if he’d lived.” She sighs and shrugs. “Or so I tell myself. I tried to argue with my family. What was the point of them coming over here in the first place if I couldn’t have a career racing cars? Where was their pioneering spirit?”
I’d heard the tale of Shari’s family before, of how her paternal grandparents came over to the UK in the late sixties to work in the textile industry and made their home here.
Then she breaks out into a grin.
“Admittedly, getting into motorsport would have been almost impossible to achieve, certainly without the support of my family. So I did the next best rebellious thing.”
“Becoming a detective?” I didn’t think it was rebellious. Tough, yes, but hardly a bold statement in line with motorsport. “I dunno, what about the performing arts?”
She laughs out loud, “Yes, that would have been a sin indeed.”
She lapses back into an accent that I assume is an impression of one of her parents. “No child of mine shall ever be seen on the stage.”
She laughs again and I join in, the release of the tension thrumming through me a welcome relief.
We finish lunch and clear away. This afternoon isn’t going to be much better than the morning, as we’re heading to Larchdown to gather statements from Josh, Alex, and the Walker family about the events of the night I arrested Winstanton. I can’t believe it was less than a week ago.
We finish taking the statements a lot later than I’d anticipated, so I tell Shari to head on home and not to rush in tomorrow morning. We have a briefing at ten with the prosecuting team so she won’t be needed until then. It’s a preliminary, when we’ll find out a bit more about the defence and expected timescales. It can take years for a case this complex to come to court, but not always. They might try to rush it through due to the high profile of Winstanton. We won’t know for a while yet. But all those decisions are above my pay grade, and now I’ve got Winstanton, my job is to make sure he pays for his crimes. I’ve waited so long for this moment.
I get in my car and watch Shari drive off, noting for the first time she drives a Mazda MX5. Small and sporty. I bite back a laugh. It suits her and makes my midrange VW seem boring in comparison, but then I don’t really care much about cars. I don’t leave immediately, instead I sit looking out over the valley and the village beyond, watching the sky split into bands of orange and pink as the sun dips towards the horizon. I don’t remember when I last saw a sunset so beautiful—a stark contrast to the ugliness I’ve heard today. My shock and surprise this morning at the revelations told by Levi almost pale in comparison to my reaction over what Josh told me. I’ll have to follow up on all the possible leads from his statement, which might be difficult given how long ago it was, but if it’s true we could be looking at a manslaughter charge on top of everything else.
As the colours slink lower and indigo floods into their edges, I take a deep breath. There’s no point dwelling on it now; I’ve had enough of Winstanton for today. I start my car and drive back towards the village, and as I get nearer a memory drifts into my head. Your mum seems nice. I’d almost forgotten it with everything else that’s gone on today. I have no idea how Levi knows my mum. I know they live in the same village, but they’d hardly move in the same circles. My mum drinks tea and knits; hanging out in the Arms isn’t her style. I have no recollection of deliberately driving to her house, so pulling up outside has me frowning as I sit in the car and look over to her cottage. Even though I haven't lived there for twenty years, it hasn’t changed, and every stone is as familiar to me as looking at my own face. The windows shine their warm yellow light, casting shadows in the growing dark. A figure crosses the space, a silhouette causing the light to darken and brighten at its passing. My mum. A range of emotions force their way up—anger, disappointment, and intense sadness, both at her and my own actions. Can I put it behind us? Can I forgive her? I watch the house for a few more moments. She passes again and stops. I see her in profile as she laughs and the feelings subside, a hollow emptiness taking their place. It’s too late. Maybe I could have made amends once, but I’ve left it too long, and the gap is too far for me to bridge now. I try not to let the loss and grief that now threaten to engulf me take hold, and I start to turn my head away when my attention is caught by another shape appearing in the window—one I now know well, especially as I spent a couple of hours staring at it earlier today. Levi.
I don’t stop to see any more; I don’t stop to think. I start my car and drive the short distance to the pub, and I’m thankful it’s fairly empty as I enter and stride up to Darla behind the bar.
“Mac. Another visit so soon? How nice,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“What is Levi doing at my mum’s house?’ I demand, not even bothering with a greeting.
“I believe he’s renting a room from her,” she says, trying to sound innocent and failing.
“What did you do?” I demand, because I know she’s behind this somehow.
“He needed somewhere else to stay. He came back the other night with blood on his face. I can’t have that in front of the customers.”
My gut twists at her words and my core heats as a flash memory of licking the blood from his lips comes back to me. I shake my head to dispel the vision and turn my attention back to Darla.
“You asked him to leave because of that? Because you think he’s dangerous? A threat?” I stare at her. I can’t believe it. It’s not like Darla. The blood running hot in my veins at the thought freezes as she levels a look at me and squares her shoulders.
“No Mac, because you are.”