Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(55)

At dinner, they sat around the dining-room table, not the kitchen, as in so many years in the past. Perhaps if he had not been present it would have been in the kitchen this evening, too.

Daniel dismissed the whole subject of Russell Graves, and instead told his mother in particular how he had very nearly lost the case for Roman Blackwell, but in the end pulled it out of apparently nothing, like a magician’s rabbit out of a hat. They all discussed the latest letter from Jemima in New York, and how her husband, Patrick, was faring, and, of course, all about her two little girls.

Daniel left after nine. He hugged his mother, as he did always, and shook his father’s hand, feeling the warmth of his grip just a moment longer than usual. It was Charlotte who saw him to the door.

‘Come back, if you can’t handle it alone,’ she said very quietly. ‘We’re always here.’

‘Handle what?’ He feigned innocence.

‘Whatever it is,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve been a policeman’s wife since before you were born, my darling. I know there’s something very wrong. Just remember . . . we are here.’ She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then almost pushed him out of the door.

He arrived back at Mrs Portiscale’s, opened the front door as close to silently as he was able, and went inside. There was only the night light on in the hall. He went up the stair, avoiding the step he knew creaked, and into his own room on the next floor, overlooking the garden.

He saw the message on the desk, propped up, and written in Mrs Portiscale’s painfully careful hand: ‘Dear Mr Pitt, a Mr Roman Blackwell left a message for you to visit him. Sincerely, Mrs Portiscale.’

Well, whatever it was would have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe Mercy had heard something interesting . . .

Daniel sat down at the desk and unlocked the drawer. He took out Graves’ notes for the book and started to copy them for his father. He studied them also for himself as he went. At last he knew where to begin.

It was nearly two o’clock when he finally went to bed.





Chapter Thirteen


Daniel woke with a start to find sunlight streaming in through the window. His mind had been in too much turmoil to remember to set his alarm clock, and it was already after eight. He might well have missed breakfast, and he had work that could not wait.

He washed, shaved and dressed, and hurried downstairs to see if there was anything left to eat. Then he changed his mind. Roman Blackwell’s message had been delivered the previous afternoon. He should go straight away. With a hurried apology to Mrs Portiscale, he dashed out of the front door and then down the street to the nearest cab stand. He asked the driver to take him to Blackwell’s address.

It was about nine o’clock and traffic was totally entangled at the busiest time of day. When they arrived, he paid the driver. The fare seemed an exorbitant amount, but the man had found backroads that avoided the worst blockages and left Daniel on the pavement sooner than he would have thought possible. He thanked him, and walked up to Blackwell’s doorstep. Before he raised his hand to knock, it opened in front of him.

‘Well!’ Mercy said, looking him up and down. She refrained from straightening his tie for him, but only just. ‘Come in,’ she invited, stepping back. ‘You look . . . frazzled!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Daniel apologised. He must not let her see, or guess, the real reason for his inability to command his thoughts. ‘I am. I got Roman’s message too late to call on you. I was . . . out . . .’

She grunted rather than spoke. ‘Breakfast?’

‘No, dinner last night. With my parents.’

‘I mean would you like breakfast?’ she offered. ‘Nobody does their best thinking on an empty stomach.’

‘Am I going to need my best thinking?’ he asked, trying to invest some lightness into his voice, and failing. He did not want more nasty surprises.

‘Yes,’ Mercy said simply.

She took him through to the kitchen where Blackwell was sitting at the table nursing a cold cup of tea.

‘Ah!’ he said as soon as he saw Daniel. ‘What news?’ His dark face was crumpled, as if he were expecting something bad and trying to guess the nature of it before he was told.

‘You sent for me!’ Daniel said, sitting down in the chair opposite him.

‘True,’ Blackwell agreed. ‘Ma, you’d better feed him. He looks bloody awful.’

‘I can see that,’ Mercy replied without turning round. She was already busy with slicing bread and warming up the grill. ‘And watch your manners, Roman. I’m still your mother, and don’t you forget it!’

Blackwell smiled and his face lit with genuine amusement. ‘My one reliable pleasure in life is baiting Mercy. She never fails to bite.’

‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘Balderdash!’

‘What have you found out so far?’ Blackwell asked Daniel. ‘I think I can add to it.’

‘A lot,’ Daniel replied, conscious of telling Blackwell less than the truth. But Blackwell admired Pitt so much, he would not want to know about the Portuguese murder and the compromise Pitt had felt he had to make. ‘But without proof it all amounts to nothing,’ he added, refusing to give Graves’ manuscript the credit of belief.

Daniel felt a little like a moth pinned to a board, so piercing was Blackwell’s gaze.