Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
I put the question to Evelyn over an early supper. So far, I’ve resisted the temptation of sharing Malo’s latest fantasy career, but the realization that it might conceivably work prompts a rethink. I tell her about Bill’s son, about the Twilight Fund, and about Malo sitting down to dinner with three strangers he thinks will change his life. Evelyn knows Malo well. She’s been kind to him in all kinds of ways over the years and has a kinship with him that, to be frank, I’ve always envied. After the meal, at her insistence, I load up the site I’ve just watched, and leave her to it while I deal with the washing-up. When I return to the lounge, she’s turned the PC off.
‘Obscene,’ she says briskly. ‘And you can tell him I said so.’
That evening, we watch old episodes of Location, Location, Location. This is a world away from peninsula beds and on-board tables laid for twelve, but Evelyn is a huge fan and admires the way that clever camerawork can turn a humble terrace into the home of someone’s dreams. Earlier than usual, we share a hug and retire. As I climb the stairs to bed, I wonder again where Malo might be headed. H, it has to be said, is a rich man. Half a lifetime in the cocaine trade has brought him a 300-acre spread in West Dorset, and Malo is no stranger to the goodies that money can buy. Yet this new world into which he’s stepped represents a totally different dimension of wealth, a far bigger swamp, and I just hope he’s clever enough not to get sucked under.
I’m showered and ready for bed when I become aware of voices from next door. I turn off the light and stand by the window. A white van is parked outside McFaul’s bungalow, the back doors open. I recognize Presley, the young carpenter who made and fitted Evelyn’s new bookshelves. He’s looking at a small mountain of furniture piled on the pavement and, as I watch, two other figures join him. One of them is McFaul. The other, a woman, I don’t know. The stuff on the pavement must have come from McFaul’s front room. He rummages around for a moment or two and then gives up. Presley, meanwhile, has clambered into the back of the van.
‘OK, Andy?’ This, very faintly, from Presley.