‘Cliff. Cliff. Are you all right? What’re you doing here?’
Tess shook me awake from an uneasy sleep that left me with half-remembered dreams and an all-too present crick in my neck. I struggled to the surface and found her standing over me wrapped in her kimono with her hair standing up, tear stains in the remains of yesterday’s makeup. She still looked good and I stood creakily and put my arms around her.
‘It was a hell of a night,’ I said. ‘Things happened after you went to sleep and I had to come back to make sure you were all right.’
‘What things?’
‘Let me get cleaned up and I’ll tell you.’ I was reluctant to let her go and she didn’t seem to want me to. I smoothed down her hair. ‘I’m sorry about Ramsay. I’m very sorry. I feel partly responsible.’
She released herself, backed off and looked at me. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean if I hadn’t started poking around things might not have turned out like this. Probably wouldn’t have.’
She shook her head. ‘No. This goes back before you. Both things – me and Ramsay and the protest. I knew there was something wrong about the Tadpole Creek protest and about Damien Talbot. But the thing had given Ramsay a focus and me too for that matter, and I didn’t want to admit it. You’re not responsible, Cliff. Don’t think that. Have a shower. Ramsay left some shaving stuff here, I think, before he started growing the beard. I’ll make coffee.’
I showered and shaved using one of Ramsay’s disposable razors and a cake of soap. The razor had been used before and soap doesn’t make the best lather. I avoided nicking myself but the result was pretty rough. I tamed my hair with Tess’s brush, but there was nothing I could do about a shirt that had been sweated into, made wet with tears and slept in.
In the kitchen Tess pointed to the coffee pot and a plate of buttered toast and went off to the bathroom. I was feeling seedy and hungover from the Scotch and the caffeine of the night before so I did the only thing possible. I poured the last dregs of the whisky into an inch of black coffee and slugged it down. Then I poured a full mug, added milk and drank it with sugar and three slices of toast. Then I had another mug. It was the most liquids and solids I’d taken in for breakfast in years and I have to admit that it made me feel better.
Tess came in wearing a dark dress and low heels. She’d put on her makeup and her hair was still wet but brushed so that it’d dry into a neat, slightly severe, shape around her head. With a start I realised that she bore a resemblance to Helen Broadway, a lover of some years ago. That relationship hadn’t turned out well and I pushed the thought away. She poured herself some coffee and cut a piece of toast into small squares.
‘I saw the gun,’ she said.
I’d left it on a chair in the living room meaning to put my jacket over it. I nodded.
‘Tell me what’s happened.’ she said.
I told her about Talbot being at my place and the note and my uncertainty about whether the note had referred to Megan French or her. I told her about Macleod and Miss Cartwright’s accusations and the connection with Talbot. She drank coffee, nibbled toast and listened without responding. I still didn’t tell her about my attempt to infiltrate the protest group with Geoff Samuels. I felt bad about it, but I couldn’t think of a way to make it look right. I finished talking, ate some more toast and drank some more coffee.
‘You have to go to the police,’ Tess said.
‘It wouldn’t do any good. They don’t know where to find Talbot any more than I do. And I haven’t got enough to make the police even knock on Macleod’s door.’
‘I wonder if Ramsay knows anything about Talbot and this doctor. He and Damien were close at first, or so it seemed. Until they had a falling out over tactics and… leadership.’
‘That was one of the things I was going to ask him last night, before he blew his stack.’
‘And what else?’
I fingered an irritating patch of stubble I’d missed with the blunt razor. ‘I suppose about Megan. He told the interviewer that he hardly knew her. D’you think that’s true?’
Tess was slow to answer. ‘We’re getting to it, aren’t we?’
‘Getting to what?’
‘C’mon, Cliff. You’re not that dumb. You saw how Ramsay is with me, about me. Isn’t there something you want to ask?’
‘No. Is there something you want to tell me?’
She gave it serious thought, then snapped her fingers. ‘Okay. Why not? I worked it all out with a therapist a long time ago. I’ve moved on. I’m ten years older than Ramsay. As I said, I looked after him from the time he was fifteen, when our parents died. He took it very hard. He was very close to Mum. Inconsolable. One night he came into my bed. Remember I was young, too and trying to cope with grief and responsibility. Anyway, it happened. A few times. Then we stopped. I thought I’d got through it without damage and I pretty much did. As I say, I got some help later. Ramsay didn’t get through it and he’s refused to discuss it, let alone have therapy. I don’t know anything about his sex life now. I don’t think he has one.’
I nodded and scratched at the stubble.
‘Your reaction?’
‘Admiration for you, sympathy for him.’
She put her arms around me. ‘Thanks. Look, I’m going to have to try to get in touch with him, calm him down. You understand?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll try to get him to talk to you. Might be hard.’
‘Okay. I should go and check on a few things. See if there’s anything I’ve missed that might go somewhere.’
‘I’ve got all your numbers, mate. I’ll track you down.’
I wondered if she meant it.