Rush of Blood Read online

  Which was why, for the time being at least, that speech would stay undelivered.

  Barry pushed in the cigarette lighter then reached across to the passenger seat for his Benson & Hedges. A sigh became a belch as he flipped open the lid of the gold pack. The last thing he needed was this stupid dinner party.

  What was it she’d wanted to cook? Something Floridian? Christ on a bike …

  ‘Make an effort,’ she’d said, more than once, and ‘Behave yourself,’ which he knew damn well meant ‘try not to get pissed and show me up’. It was a shame, because having a few drinks and sneaking the odd look down Marina Green’s shirt were just about the only things he was actually looking forward to. Besides, Angie was a fine one to talk, the way she’d been putting it away lately. Truth was, she’d been off her face on wine and pricey cocktails almost every night on that holiday; talking too loud and laughing at Ed’s stupid jokes, so all things considered it was a bit rich, her telling him to mind his Ps and Qs.

  She needed to show a bit more respect, Barry thought.

  He lit his cigarette and cracked the window an inch to let the smoke out.

  Bad as his brother …

  He’d tell more of his stupid jokes, Ed would, and Dave would laugh along and Susan would roll her eyes. They’d talk about how quickly their tans had faded and how polite and friendly everyone was in the shops over there, not like the surly bastards you got here.

  Ed would drawl ‘Have a nice day’ in his crap American accent.

  Then later on they’d talk about the missing girl, bound to.

  Which Barry didn’t much fancy.

  TWO

  ‘Sarasota has all the great beaches anyone could ask for and a stunning array of wildlife … while the variety of museums, galleries, concerts, and other artistic activities on offer have led to the area being known as the Culture Coast.’ Angela Finnegan lays down the complementary tourist guide that was handed to her when she and her husband picked up their hire car. ‘Sounds good, doesn’t it, love? Be nice to see some wildlife.’

  The man behind her grunts, not really listening.

  She opens the small, photocopied ‘brochure’ she was given when checking in to their accommodation and continues to read out loud. ‘Siesta Key is one of several barrier islands which separate Sarasota Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. At its centre, the bars, souvenir shops, and restaurants of Siesta Village are clustered around the beach road, and, ideally located at the heart of this vibrant community, the Pelican Palms Resort offers premium quality rentals to holidaymakers and snowbirds alike.’ She puts the brochure down and closes her eyes. ‘Well, no complaints so far. I think it’s lovely, don’t you?’

  Actually, Resort is probably overstating the case a little. It’s a complex of fifteen units: one, two or three bedrooms, each with separate entrance, private patio and barbecue grill; a communal swimming pool and two hot tubs. At $615 per week for a queen-bedded unit that sleeps two, it prides itself on being reasonably priced, especially considering that each cabin comes with a fully equipped – if modestly sized – kitchen and that the resort is a ‘stone’s throw from a dozen or more great places to eat and five minutes’ walk from the award-winning beach’.

  ‘Paradise on a budget’. Of course, you can never be sure just how genuine any of the comments left on these websites are, but that was how one satisfied customer of the Pelican Palms had described the place. On the second morning of their holiday – just after eleven and already 28 degrees and climbing – that’s more or less what Angela Finnegan is saying to her husband.

  ‘It’s not as though we’re going to be spending much time here anyway, is it?’ she says.

  ‘I suppose not,’ he says.

  ‘Not inside the cabin at any rate. I think it’s pretty good value, for what it is.’

  She is dangling her legs in the pool, while behind her, Barry is spreading towels across their sunbeds. His gut hangs over the waist-band of his multi-coloured Vilebrequin shorts and his shoulders are already burned having overdone it on the previous day. Like her husband, Angie is thirty-six years old and second generation London-Irish. Unlike him, she is content to keep her belly out of sight beneath a diaphanous floral wrap and a navy-blue one-piece swimming costume.

  ‘Which factor sun cream do you want?’ Barry asks.

  A woman walks up and, in an English accent, asks if the empty sunbed next to Barry’s is going spare. Barry says he thinks so and when Angie turns round, the woman looks over and says, ‘I think we were on the same flight out.’

  When Angie sits down on the edge of her sunbed, the woman sits on the edge of the spare one. ‘Where are you from?’ Angie asks.

  ‘We’re from Forest Hill,’ the woman says. ‘South London.’ She nods across to a man who waves back at her from one of the hot tubs. He is pale and wiry with fair hair that looks greasy but might just be damp and a wisp of beard. ‘That’s Dave and I’m Marina.’ She smiles, showing a lot of straight, square teeth, and when Angie and Barry introduce themselves she says, ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Marina Green is thirty-two. She is mixed race, pretty with straight black hair dyed red at the tips, and though her body is not perfect, she is happy enough to show off her best bits in the white and gold bikini she bought from Monsoon at the airport.

  ‘What about you?’ Marina asks.

  ‘Sorry?’ Angie says.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Crawley,’ Angie says. ‘About five miles from Gatwick.’

  ‘That’s handy,’ Marina says.

  Barry laughs. ‘I knew there was a reason we were living there.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Angie says. ‘The schools are pretty good.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marina looks around. ‘I didn’t see any kids.’

  Angie grins and leans towards her then lowers her voice, mock-conspiratorial. ‘We left them at home. We wanted a bit of peace and quiet.’

  Marina smiles back. ‘Actually, it’s one of the reasons we chose this place,’ she says. ‘On the website it said there weren’t usually too many screaming kids running around.’

  ‘Same here,’ Angie says.

  ‘How many kids have you got?’

  ‘Three between us,’ Angie says. She casts a quick glance in Barry’s direction. He is slathering sun cream on to his chest and does not appear to be paying a great deal of attention. ‘Only my two live with us, though.’

  Marina says, ‘Right,’ and raises her face up to the sun for a few seconds.

  ‘I like that,’ Angie says. She points to the small diamond stud in Marina’s nose.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Marina says.

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ Marina places the tip of her finger to the diamond. ‘Had it done when I was a teenager. I think I was just trying to annoy my mum.’ She notices a man walking around the edge of the pool carrying two bottles of beer and nods towards him. ‘They’re Brits as well,’ she says. ‘From north London.’ The man kicks off his sandals and sets one of the bottles down next to a woman who appears to be asleep, face down on a sunbed.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  When the man turns round, Marina waves. The man raises his beer bottle in salute, has a drink then slips his sandals on again. They watch as he walks towards them.

  ‘He’s called Ed,’ Marina says. ‘And she’s Sue, I think. They’ve already been here a week. Well, you can tell, can’t you?’

  Apart from being well tanned, Ed Dunning is tall and muscular, his head and chest thick with tight, black curls and a stomach which – while not quite a washboard – is about as flat as any forty-two-year-old could reasonably wish for. When he reaches them he smiles and pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. Says, ‘Nice day for it.’

  ‘More Brits,’ Marina says.

  Ed shakes his head. ‘We should have gone to Skegness,’ he says. ‘Can’t get away from them.’ Then he laughs at his joke and Marina and Angie join in. Marina makes the introductions and Ed steps across
to shake Barry’s hand and say, ‘All right, mate.’

  They talk for a few minutes about the resort and about Sarasota, and, with just a trace of a Midlands accent, Ed tells them that this is the third straight year he and Sue have visited. Angie says they must really love it here and he tells her that there’s nowhere like it. He tells her he knows all the places she and Barry really need to see while they’re here. The best bars and restaurants, the boat trips that won’t rip them off and the secret beaches the tourists don’t know about. He puts on an American accent and says he gets ‘all the skinny from the locals’.

  ‘So, where’s good for dinner then?’ Angie asks.

  ‘You been to SKOB?’

  Angie shakes her head.

  ‘Siesta Key Oyster Bar,’ Ed says. ‘You’ve got to go there.’ He turns and points. ‘Just a few minutes’ walk towards the beach. Fantastic food, great atmosphere. There’s live music every night and you can sit outside.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Angie says. She turns to Barry. ‘What do you think?’

  Suddenly there is shouting from the shallow end of the pool. A young girl, thirteen or fourteen, is splashing about and shouting to her mother. The woman is smoking at a table beneath a tall coconut palm. She is bottle-blonde, wearing denim shorts and an American Eagle T-shirt and does not look old enough to be the mother of a teenager. She puts a finger to her lips, but the girl just shouts louder, squealing with excitement as she slaps at the surface of the water. The girl is heavy and round-shouldered and when she is not shouting, her mouth opens and closes slowly.

  The woman gets up from her chair and stubs out her cigarette. She sees the two men and two women watching from across the pool and holds up her hands. She mouths a ‘Sorry’ and walks towards the water saying, ‘Be quiet, baby …’

  Ed turns back to Angie and Marina. ‘Listen, why don’t we all eat there together?’ he says.

  Angie instinctively turns towards Barry. Marina looks across at Dave who is just climbing out of the hot tub.

  ‘I know the bloke who runs the place,’ Ed says. ‘So I can definitely get us a decent table on the balcony. Quesadillas, crab cakes, jugs of frozen margaritas … what d’you reckon?’

  ‘Don’t you want to eat with your wife?’ Marina asks, looking towards the woman who is now sitting up on her sunbed and swigging from the bottle of beer. The woman smiles and waves. She is slim and small-breasted. She is wearing a broad-brimmed sunhat and a black one-piece swimming costume.

  Ed pulls a face. He says, ‘She does what she’s told,’ in some kind of mock-cockney accent and laughs.

  Once again, Marina and Angie join in the laughter, and Angie’s cheeks flush just a little.

  ‘You two have a think about it.’ He looks from Angie to Barry and back, then turns to Marina. ‘And you have a word with …’

  ‘Dave,’ Marina says, helping him out.

  ‘Yeah, see what he fancies doing,’ Ed says. ‘It’s not a big deal either way. Might be a laugh, that’s all.’ He turns then, wincing a little at yet more squeals from the other side of the pool, and they all watch as the woman wraps a towel around the young girl’s shoulders and ushers her gently back into the shade.

  From: Edward Dunning

  Date: 16 May 22:14:17 BST

  To: Angela Finnegan, Marina Green

  Subject: Re: Dinner!!!

  Ed here (Sue crap at answering email etc) and dinner sounds great. Hope M & D are up for it too. The Florida sunshine seems a long way away, doesn’t it? Maybe the girls could wear their swimsuits just for old times’ sake and I’m happy to rub in suntan lotion as always. It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it! I’ll bring the margarita mix.

  See y’all soon,

  Ed x

  Sent from my iPhone

  THREE

  Ed hissed a passionate ‘Yes’ to himself when his opponent’s lame attempt at a drop-shot caught the top of the net. He clenched his fist as he turned away to fetch some balls from up against the fence. Now, he was serving at 40–15 to go 4–3 up in the deciding set.

  He shoved a ball into the pocket of his shorts, began to bounce another.

  He whispered, ‘Come on.’

  Ed didn’t know the bloke he was playing terribly well. Simon something-or-other, bought and sold top-end cars. The important thing was that he was three places above Ed on the singles ladder, which meant that Ed was only a couple of games away from a very significant scalp. The bloke was friendly enough and it had been a good-natured match up to this point, but glancing across the net as he prepared to serve, Ed could see how badly Simon something-or-other wanted it.

  Not enough though, Ed thought. Not as much as I do. Which is why I’m going to kick your arse.

  He glanced across at Sue, who was sitting at one of the tables outside the clubhouse. She wasn’t looking his way, which was a shame, because he felt an ace coming and he wanted her to see it.

  His first serve was a foot long.

  ‘Long,’ the car dealer shouted.

  Tosser.

  The second serve was too high and far too slow and the bounce gave his opponent all the time in the world to get over the ball and put it away very easily. Ed glanced across to make sure that Sue hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Forty–thirty,’ the car dealer said.

  Ed trapped a ball between racket and shoe, flicked it up and walked over to the backhand court, muttering. ‘I know the score …’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Ed shook his head and bounced the ball. This time, the first serve was right in the corner. He pushed off hard towards the net.

  ‘Long,’ the car dealer shouted.

  ‘What?’

  His opponent, who was already moving across for the next point, stopped and looked back at the mark the ball had left. He shrugged and raised his racket. ‘OK, play two.’

  Ed stared at him, watched the cheeky bastard move grudgingly back and get into position to receive the serve again. Shaking his head like he was the one being generous, when he was clearly just a cheat.

  He netted the first serve, but his second was pretty good and Ed watched, delighted, as a mis-hit return came ballooning back, the fist already clenched by the time the ball had landed a good few feet beyond his baseline. The car dealer dropped his racket in exasperation. Ed looked towards the clubhouse again.

  ‘Game,’ he said, good and loud.

  At the chairs, they both opened water bottles and watched the two women playing on the court behind theirs. Both were pushing fifty, but Ed thought that one of them looked quite dirty and had a backside that was still very tidy indeed in tight, grey tracksuit bottoms. Her name was Carol and she and Ed had exchanged near-the-knuckle comments at various club gatherings. This had become even more exciting since someone had told him that, even though she was married to some duffer in the seventh team, she was shagging the club captain.

  ‘That’s nice to look at,’ the car dealer said.

  Ed was pleased to see that his opponent, who was a couple of stone heavier than he should have been, had yet to recover his breath and was sweating heavily. ‘Up for it as well,’ he said. ‘From what I hear.’

  ‘Really?’

  They stared as the woman bent to pick up a couple of stray balls then walked back to her baseline. When she served, Ed nodded to the car dealer, raising his eyebrows at the glimpse of surprisingly toned-looking stomach on display as she stretched towards the ball.

  Ed took a swig from his water bottle.

  ‘So, how’s business?’ the car dealer asked. ‘You’re something in the book trade, aren’t you?’

  Ed worked as a sales rep for Macdonald & Hughes, a mediumsized publisher of academic books and technical manuals. Two of his colleagues had been laid off in the previous three months. He tossed his water bottle back into his bag and said that yes, he worked in publishing and that business was pretty good actually.

  ‘I can never find the time to read,’ the car dealer said. ‘Just a couple of thrillers o
n holiday, you know. Jeffrey Archer or Frederick Forsyth. That bloke who writes the Jack Ryan books, what’s his name?’

  Ed didn’t know. He put his hands on his hips, rolled them around. ‘I’ve just always loved books,’ he said.

  The fact was that Ed hated books. The boxes of the bloody things he had to hump to and from the boot of his car every day. That he had to transport the length and breadth of the sodding country, working a territory that got bigger each time another one of the sales team got the boot. He’d seen it coming, of course. The damage that the internet would do to the business he was in. Who the hell wanted dirty great encyclopaedias, dictionaries and technical manuals when they were all available for nothing on your computer? On your phone, for goodness’ sake.

  He was still flogging eight-track cassettes when everyone was listening to MP3s.

  Thank God he’d always been one of those with a nose for which way the wind was blowing. He’d seen the way things were heading long before anyone else and even though he knew he would be the last one to get the push, he’d started sniffing around for something else good and early. Putting out feelers. Nobody had bitten as yet, but he was confident he’d be able to jump before he was pushed and was still waiting to hear back from one or two contacts. There were several new leads to chase up. He had a meeting that sounded promising early the next week.

  ‘So, shall we get this finished?’ The car dealer picked up his racket, bounced the head against the heel of his hand.

  They walked back on to court.

  Ed thought, I’ll get this finished.

  He walked to the baseline and beyond, until he was just a few feet away from where Carol was gathering balls on the other side of the high, cross-hatched fence. He glanced quickly across to where Sue was still sitting, then said, ‘You winning, Carol?’