The Guest House Read online

  She’d lapped it up. I’d called her as soon as I found the phone, tucked at the bottom of his overnight bag, in among the forgotten socks and the stolen hotel soap. She’d answered breathlessly, and my mind had filled with horrible images. He was underneath her. Behind her. He was sitting in a skanky chair in her skanky flat and she was making him happy in a way I’d never been particularly fond of: adding new bruises to her skanky knees.

  ‘You’re fucking my husband,’ I’d said, through gritted teeth. ‘Callum Ashcroft. The father of my children. The youngest isn’t even two. I always told him he’d get one chance and he wasted that the first year we were together. So he’s yours. Keep the prick. But don’t ever think you’re getting the kids.’

  I’d been shaking when I hung up. I don’t think I even let her speak. Callum phoned ten minutes later. He was out on the loch, escorting a father and son from County Durham who’d signed up for a last-minute canoe trip out to the bay at Sanna. He’d abandoned them. Paddled for home as if he was trying to whip the water into meringue. I’d already piled his stuff in the garden by the time he got back. Dropped the match just as he screeched into the driveway, still dressed in his waterproofs and life vest.

  He left the same night. I didn’t let him in the house. Didn’t listen to a word. He’d begged, as I’d known he would. Literally kneeled on the front lawn, the flames from his burning clothes casting flickering shadows on his beseeching face. Let me talk, he’d begged. It’s not what you think. I swear, you have to trust me, it’s not what you think…

  He only left when I stood at the front door with the phone in my hand and told him that the local police were on their way. He got in the car and drove away. That was the last week of September. Good riddance.

  I glance down at the phone on the passenger seat. I’m not waiting much longer. I’ll give Bishop until half past and that’s that. I’m sorry about the way things went but I’m too old and cynical to be playing silly beggars. If he wants to meet me, I’m here and waiting. I’ve shaved my legs and put on a half-decent dress and I’ve even put on some lipstick and a hefty squirt of expensive Ariana Grande. I’m here and waiting. I can’t say I felt much in the way of sexual excitement at the thought of an assignation in a car park with a man I’m not sure I fancy, but I know I need to do something that makes me feel at least as though I’m partway getting my own back on Callum.

  Maybe that’s why I agreed to meet up with Bishop in the first place. I didn’t even really like his kisses. He’d tasted strange. I’ve only kissed Callum in my whole adult life, which I used to think was sweet and romantic and which now makes me feel as though I’m hurtling towards middle age without ever having really lived.

  Another glance at the clock: 9.31. I suppose that’s it. He’s not showing. I’ve messaged him three times and called twice and although I’m not exactly up to date on the rules, I think I’m probably coming across as a bit desperate. He must be more pissed off with me than he let on. But why? I mean, what was he going to say to me that was so important? I’ve been through a dozen different hypotheticals and keep coming back to the same thing – he wanted to share a secret that was difficult to get out, and when he kept being interrupted he’d taken it as a sign not to open up. I wonder if I’ve messed up with some aspect of his therapy, or something…

  Headlights, through the trees. A war of different sensations inside me. Relief, fear, anxiety. Somewhere in there, a thrill of satisfaction; a delight at knowing that I’m still an attractive proposition.

  The lights carry on right by, following the outline of the road. A moment later, three more vehicles, all big and square: their lights full and bright and expensive. I glimpse what might be a Range Rover, another, sleeker, that looks like Callum’s dream vehicle, a Porsche Cayenne.

  I deflate. That’s it, then. Most exciting part of my evening was spotting a fleet of fancy cars heading to the castle. My mind fills with all sorts of images of opulence and splendour. Perhaps the new owner is throwing a masked ball: a decadent evening of gold masks and cashmere capes; guttering candles and unbridled lust. It’s what I’d do if I owned the big house that looks out through the woods towards the loch. It was on the market for nearly three years before the new owners snapped it up in the spring. Five storeys of red sandstone: a true Disney castle of a place; 130 acres of land, and ownership of three uninhabited islands.

  The papers in London almost lost their minds when it came on the market with an asking price of just under four million. It was a posh hotel in its previous life. Sixteen big suite bedrooms, staff accommodation, a games room, a billiards room and no end of outbuildings and little hidden lodges, it was only a little more expensive than a three-bed semi in Bayswater. I’ve tried to keep my ears open for gossip about who finally did put in a bid but so far, the jungle drums have been quiet. All we know is that whoever bought it hasn’t moved in yet, and that they made the purchase through an international broker. I feel quite pleased at having seen the fleet of fancy vehicles. I’ll have something to tell Theresa in the morning.

  On the passenger seat, a vibration and flash of light. I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, the way Callum says I always do when I’m getting exasperated. If it’s Bishop he can bugger off. I’ve had enough. I want my dressing gown, a hot chocolate with a healthy measure of Tia Maria, and then I want to fall asleep with my head against Lilly’s, her lovely garlic breath creating a warm, safe cloud around my face.

  I look at the screen. It’s Callum. As if things couldn’t get any worse.

  7

  Four months ago

  A park in Vauxhall, South London

  His name is Oscar Parkin. He’s a solid specimen. Stocky. Five foot eight, with a big bald head, neat beard and chunky Harry Palmer glasses. He’s got nice eyes and big arms and has done quite well for himself, all things considered. He’s a Deputy Director (Logistics and Synchronisation) with the National Crime Agency: boss of a department that owes explanations to nobody but the Home Secretary and the handful of puppeteers who tweak her strings. He’s been in law enforcement for more than twenty years and his CV, should he ever need to fill one in, would deplete a rainforest in order to list the qualifications he holds, professional bodies he is affiliated with, and successful operations that he has led.

  He’s received the Queen’s Police Medal twice, and has it on good authority that he will be on the shortlist for the Directorship of Organised Crime Command when the current incumbent makes a mess of things, which can surely be only a matter of time. He’s popular with the troops. He’s served his time on the front lines. Seen it all, done it all, and efficiently removed the stains from the T-shirt. The bosses appreciate his results perhaps more than they are comfortable with the individual, but he’s at ease with that, having never been the sort of obsequious boot-polisher that the powers-that-be traditionally prefer for high office.

  On balance, Oscar Parkin has quite a lot of reasons to be cheery. Today especially. The morning’s inter-agency symposium has gone moderately well. He’s made his case, told them why the top-secret operation should come to his specialised unit and not to any of the other slavering dogs who want it, and if they make the wrong decision, it’s on them. His team leader will just have to live with that. He shouldn’t be worrying about her reaction. Shouldn’t care what she will say. Shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about her that it sometimes seems as though he loses whole chunks of his day and night to nothing but fantasy.

  ‘Focus, Oscar,’ he mutters, in an accent that Southerners think of as Geordie, but which actually has its roots in West Cumbria. ‘Breathe. Look at the trees. Feel the tree. Imagine the nutrients slurping up through your roots and into your branches. Feel it in your leaves. Stretch, and know you are at one with everything. Breathe. Be the tree. Be a part of the cosmos. Empty your head and know you are a part of something greater than yourself…’

  It’s a crisply blue June day. Ramona, his soon-to-be second wife, is returning from Cadiz this evening. The chil
dren will be home this weekend: no doubt full of delightful stories about how tedious it has been at Mum’s place in Maida Vale, and quietly hinting that, if he’s cool with it, they wouldn’t object to splitting custody right down the middle and maybe spending more time with him. He knows that given time they’ll like Ramona again. They were always very fond of her when she was their nanny.

  Parkin considers this, and so much more, as he sits on his favourite green metal bench, tucked away down a secluded path in a quiet little communal garden in Vauxhall, and makes a piss-poor attempt at transcendental meditation. In essence, he thinks about nothing and everything and the bits in between, and occasionally pretends he’s a sycamore. He’s fifteen minutes from the office, but they’re fifteen minutes that count. His is a job that takes a heavy toll. He’s not a particularly New-Age chap, but these little moments of communion with grass and trees and sky are important to him.

  He has colleagues who deal with the stresses of their working lives with all manner of less wholesome pursuits. Even those who find time for yoga and Pilates or who sit at their desks colouring in mandalas on smartphone Mindfulness Apps seem no less tightly wound once they return to their realities.

  He seems to recall that drinking always helped him unwind, but he spoiled that for himself a decade back when he underwent an aloe vera detox regime and reset his pH level to neutral. After that, the hangovers were so horrific that it took the pleasure out of the drinking, and he’s been largely teetotal since. He’s stopped smoking too. Tried vaping, and the experience was so far removed from the joy of a cigarette that he’d quit after a week. He still likes his food, but acid reflux means that he can’t eat anything if he’s planning on lying down within the next four hours, and the spicy curries and creamy soups that initially contributed to his waistline, are now pleasures he foregoes.

  ‘Got any change, please? Anything really. I see you’re busy, like, but owt would be a help, owt at all…’

  Parkin looks up. A homeless man in a tatty wool coat is holding out a palm. He’s wearing fingerless gloves, exposing long, yellowed nails, and has his other arm wrapped across his gut like a belt. He’s suffering. Stomach cramps and shakes. He’s positioned himself so that the glare of the sun obscures his features but there’s no masking the smell. Parkin tries not to let his distaste show as it assaults him. Mould and bacon fat, piss and unwashed laundry.

  Parkin nods. Slips a hand into his trouser pocket and his fingers sift his coins for something with angled edges. He’s heard people refer to the homeless as an extra tax for Londoners, and apparently the going rate for donations is a pound a time. Parkin isn’t mean, but he’d rather spread the goodness a little more evenly. He’d rather give a donation of 50p to ten different homeless people than give a quid to just five and then plead poverty when next approached. It’s his own little contribution to the socialist utopia he used to hope for when he was young.

  ‘There you go, mate,’ he says, putting the coin on the man’s palm. ‘On you go.’

  The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t withdraw the hand. ‘There’s a hostel,’ he says, slurring his words. ‘I’m still four quid short.’

  Parkin doesn’t let himself sigh. He’s a well-paid man. He became a police officer because he wants to do good. He takes the rest of the coins from his pocket and deposits them on the grimy woollen glove. ‘All I’ve got, mate. Now I’m just having a quiet moment. On you go, eh?’

  The homeless man looks at the coins in his palm. Counts quickly. ‘I’m 40p short.’

  ‘You’ll sort that,’ says Parkin, brightly. ‘Man of your talents. You’ll sort that in no time. I’ve nothing left.’

  ‘No notes?’

  Parkin laughs. Shakes his head. ‘Fair’s fair, mate.’

  ‘There’s a shelter,’ he says, tottering backwards and squeezing his stomach as he fights for balance. ‘I need 6.90.’

  Parkin smiles, shaking his head. ‘You’re making this up on the spot. Can’t blame you, and you’ve done okay here, so on you go, eh? I’m just soaking up the sunshine.’

  ‘Come on, it’s just 4.95…’

  ‘Look, if you’re going to have a story, at least try and keep it consistent, eh? You’ll be telling me you need it for your bus fare next.’

  ‘I’ve got kids. I don’t see them. One of them, the middle girl – she needs an operation. I’m doing posters. I need another tenner to pay for the print run…’

  ‘That’s much better.’ Parkin smiles, wishing he had a tenner in his wallet to give the man as a reward for improvisation. ‘But unless you’ve got somewhere I can swipe my card, you’re still out of luck.’

  ‘Prick!’ spits the man, and the word comes out with such force that it’s as if he has hurled a rock. ‘Fucking rich prick! Bald prick! Tight prick!’

  ‘That’s a lot of pricks,’ says Parkin, feeling a bit hard done by. ‘Have you got a case worker? Somebody I can call? You don’t look well.’

  ‘Prick!’

  ‘Yeah, you said.’

  Parkin becomes aware of another figure, watching the dialogue with an air of amusement. His heart clenches as he looks at her. She’s not somebody a person ever feels truly comfortable around. He’s never been able to look at her for more than a moment without feeling embarrassed and self-conscious. She always makes him feel as though his flies are undone. It’s a curious balance of power. On paper, he’s her boss. Her department answers to him. And yet she’s never once managed to call him “sir” without it sounding like a synonym for “arsehole” and she looks at him as if trying to decide what colour she should paint the wooden stake upon which she will mount his severed head.

  He’s never got the hang of being a disciplinarian. He’s got a matey approach with the troops and when somebody needs a bollocking he tends to blame “those upstairs” who have forced him to “have a word”. When he does lose his temper, he veers towards sarcasm. If he finds his team looking idle he’ll tell them it’s good to see them working so hard. If somebody’s turned up for a shift hungover to the point of lockjaw, he’ll make little jokes about how much they’ll be missed “after they’ve gone”, in the hope they’ll turn his snippy comments into a more obvious threat within the sanctity of their own thoughts.

  The homeless man follows his gaze. Sees the extraordinarily attractive blonde leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree: all Parisian cool and big sunglasses: a Silk Cut between her full, made-up lip.

  ‘You a Kardashian? You a fucking Kardashian? Put me on the programme! Put me! I’ve got an arse – I can do what you do… I’ve got an arse!’

  Parkin stands up abruptly, and the homeless man teeters away, trying to pull up his coat to reveal his posterior. ‘Best of luck to you,’ mutters Parkin, and as he walks towards his covert team leader he takes a twenty-quid note from his wallet and prepares to hand it over. He hears a “tut”, and finds himself tucking the note away before the homeless man has even seen it. He doesn’t really know why. She just has that air about her: an almighty confidence that says her suggestions should be thought of as instructions, and her instructions taken as a message from God.

  ‘We said 1pm, didn’t we?’ asks Parkin.

  ‘I always add an “ish” to the end of appointments,’ she says, coolly. ‘Anyway, I was here, but you seemed to be enjoying the sunshine. And the tramp.’

  ‘We don’t say “tramp” anymore,’ says Parkin, with a silly schoolboy smile.

  ‘No? Shall we say “irritating twat” instead?’

  She pushes off from the tree and heads back down the path from the direction she’s come. She’s wearing a yellow dress with black boots and a sleek black trench coat. With her big designer sunglasses she’d only need a beret to pass for a member of the French Resistance. Despite being in charge of undercover operations within the National Crime Agency, she’s the least anonymous person he has ever met. Parkin follows. If he were trailing water he could pass for a duckling following Mummy.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asks him, as the
y meander through the park. It’s not warm, but the blue sky has tempted a few optimists into coming to their local park for a picnic or a lie-down in the sunshine. He fancies he can hear teeth chattering.

  ‘Straight down to business, eh?’ asks Parkin, and feels a sudden urge to slap himself in the forehead. He’s pretty good at talking to people. He’s personable. Occasionally charming. In her presence he feels like an ardent Royalist suddenly given a private hot-tub session with the Queen. He has a tendency to gabble. He’s not one given to blushing, but his Operational Lead could cause a Greek statue to displace its fig leaf. He doesn’t fancy her, it’s not that. She’s too cold, too mannequin-perfect to be an active figure of fantasy, but there is something about her that, in a different age, would have led to wars between neighbouring kingdoms and fights to the death between rival suitors.

  ‘I’ve places to be. If we’re doing this, it needs to begin now.’

  ‘They’re considering,’ says Parkin, wincing in advance. ‘No hard-and-fast answer.’

  Beside him, the woman stops and moves her sunglasses down her nose. ‘That’s not an answer. That’s a continuation of an unknown. I’ve walked from Lambeth for this, Parkin. How did you pitch it?’

  He feels an urge to explain himself. To tell her he’s done his best. Then he reminds himself that he’s in charge, he’s her superior, and tries to cough some assertiveness into his voice.